ifornia 
>nal 

ty 


THE  ]  [BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


'She  lingered  at  the  door  before  she  gathered  courage  to  knock."— PAGE  2^^. 


NOVELS 


OF 


GEORGE  LELIOT 

VOL.   IV. 
JSCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE 

AND 

SILAS    MARNER. 

> 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


SHEPPERTON   CHURCH,  AS   IT  WAS. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 


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GEORGE  ELIOT'S  WORKS. 


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SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE,  ana 
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Paper:  The  Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Rev. 
Amos  Barton,  20  cents;  Mr.  GilfiVi 
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SCENES 


OF 


CLERICAL    LIFE 


BY 


GEORGE    ELIOT. 


HARPER'S  LIBRARY  EDITION. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 


CONTENTS. 


fAGH 

THE  SAD  FORTUNES  OF  THE  REV.  AMOS  BARTON      ....       7 

MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY 75 

JANET'S  REPENTANCE 189 


College 
Library 

PR 
'0 


THE    SAD    FORTUNES 


THE   EEY.  AMOS   BARTON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SHEPPERTON  CHURCH  Avas  a  very  different-looking  building 
five-and-twenty  years  ago.  To  be  sure,  its  substantial  stone 
tower  looks  at  you  through  its  intelligent  eye,  the  clock,  with 
the  friendly  expression  of  former  days ;  but  in  every  thing 
else  what  changes  !  Now  there  is  a  wide  span  of  slated  roof 
flanking  the  old  steeple ;  the  windows  are  tall  and  symmet- 
rical ;  the  outer  doors  are  resplendent  with  oak-graining,  the 
inner  doors  reverentially  noiseless  with  a  garment  of  red 
baize ;  and  the  walls,  you  are  convinced,  no  lichen  Avill  ever 
again  effect  a  settlement  on — they  are  smooth  and  innutrient 
as  the  summit  of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton's  head,  after  ten  years 
of  baldness  and  supererogatory  soap.  Pass  through  the  baize 
doors,  and  you  will  see  the  nave  filled  with  well-shaped  bench- 
es, understood  to  be  free  seats ;  while  in  certain  eligible  cor- 
ners, less  directly  under  the  fire  of  the  clergyman's  eye,  there 
are  pe\vs  reserved  for  the  Shepperton  gentility.  Ample  gal- 
leries are  supported  on  iron  pillars,  and  in  one  of  them  stands 
the  crowning  glory,  the  very  clasp  or  aigrette  of  Shepperton 
church-adornment — namely,  an  organ,  not  very  much  out  of 
repair,  on  which  a  collector  of  small  rents,  differentiated  by 
the  force  of  circumstances  into  an  organist,  will  accompany 
the  alacrity  of  your  departure  after  the  blessing,  by  a  sacred 
minuet  or  an  easy  "  Gloria." 

Immense  improvement !  says  the  well-regulated  mind, 
which  unintermittingly  rejoices  in  the  New  Police,  the  Tithe 
Commutation  Act,  the  penny-post,  and  all  guaranties  of  hu- 
man advancement,  and  has  no  moments  when  conservative-re- 
forming intellect  takes  a  nap,  while  imagination  does  a  little 
Toryism  by  the  sly.  revellin^  u^  regret  that  dear,  old,  brown, 


8  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

crumbling,  picturesque  inefficiency  is  everywhere  giving  place 
to  spick-and-span  new-painted,  new-varnished  efficiency,  which 
will  yield  endless  diagrams,  plans,  elevations,  and  sections, 
but  alas  r  no  picture.  Mine,  I  fear,  is  not  a  well-regulated 
mind :  it  has  an  occasional  tenderness  for  old  abuses  ;  it  lin- 
gers with  a  certain  fondness  over  the  days  of  nasal  clerks  and 
top-booted  parsons,  and  has  a  sigh  for  the  departed  shades  of 
vulgar  errors.  So  it  is  not  surprising  that  I  recall  with  a  fond 
Badness  Shepperton  Church  as  it  was  in  the  old  days,  with  its 
outer  coat  of  rough  stucco,  its  red-tiled  roof,  its  heterogeneous 
windows  patched  with  desultory  bits  of  painted  glass,  and  its 
little  flight  of  steps  with  their  wooden  rail  running  up  the 
outer  wall,  and  leading  to  the  school-children's  gallery. 

Then  inside,  what  dear  old  quaintnesses  !  which  I  began  to 
look  at  with  delight  even  when  I  was  so  crude  a  member  of 
the  congregation  that  my  nurse  found  it  necessary  to  provide 
for  the  re-enforcement  of  my  devotional  patience  by  smuggling 
bread-and-butter  into  the  sacred  edifice.  There  was  the  chan- 
cel, guarded  by  two  little  cherubim  looking  uncomfortably 
squeezed  between  arch  and  wall,  and  adorned  with  the  es- 
cutcheons of  the  Oldinport  family,  which  showed  me  inex- 
haustible possibilities  of  meaning  in  their  blood-red  hands, 
their  death's-heads  and  cross-bones,  their  leopards'  paws,  and 
Maltese  crosses.  There  were  inscriptions  on  the  panels  of  the 
singing-gallery,  telling  of  benefactions  to  the  poor  of  Shepper- 
ton, with  an  involuted  elegance  of  capitals  and  final  flourish- 
es, which  my  alphabetic  erudition  traced  with  ever-new  de- 
light. No  benches  in  those  days;  but  huge  roomy  pews, 
round  which  devout  church-goers  sat  during  "  lessons,"  try- 
ing to  look  anywhere  else  than  into  each  other's  eyes.  No 
low  partitions  allowing  you,  with  a  dreary  absence  of  contract 
and  mystery, to  see  every  thing  at  all  moments;  but  tall 
dark  panels,  under  whose  shadow  I  sank  with  a  sense  of  re- 
tirement through.the  Litany,  only  to  feel  with  more  intensity 
my  burst  into  the  conspicuousness  of  public  life  when  I  was 
made  to  stand  up  on  the  seat  during  the  psalms  or  the  sing- 
ing. 

And  the  singing  was  no  mechanical  affair  of  official  rou- 
tine ;  it  had  a  drama.  As  the  moment  of  psalmody  approach- 
ed, by  some  process  to  me  as  mysterious  and  untraceable  as 
the  opening  of  the  flowers  or  the  breaking-out  of  the  stars,  a 
slate  appeared  in  front  of  the  gallery,  advertising  in  bold 
characters  the  psalm  about  to  be  sung,  lest  the  sonorous  an- 
nouncement of  the  clerk  should  still  leave  the  bucolic  mind  in 
doubt  on  that  head.  Then  folloAved  the  migration  of  the 
clerk  to  the  gallery,  where,  in  company  with  a  bassoon,  two 


AMOS    BARTON.  9 

key-bugles,  a  carpenter  understood  to  have  an  amazing  pow- 
er of  singing  "  counter,"  and  two  lesser  musical  stars,  he  form- 
ed a  complement  of  a  choir  regarded  in  Shepperton  as  one  of 
distinguished  attraction,  occasionally  known  to  draw  hearers 
from  the  next  parish.  The  innovation  of  hymn-books  was  as 
yet  undreamed  of;  even  the  New  Version  was  regarded  with 
a  sort  of  melancholy  tolerance,  as  part  of  the  common  degen- 
eracy in  a  time  when  prices  had  dwindled,  and  a  cotton  gown 
was  no  longer  stout  enough  to  last  a  lifetime  ;  for  the  lyrical 
taste  of  the  best  heads  in  Shepperton  had  been  formed  on 
Sternhold  and  Hopkins.  But  the  greatest  triumphs  of  the 
Shepperton  choir  were  reserved  for  the  Sundays  when  the 
slate  announced  an  ANTHEM,  with  a  dignified  abstinence  from 
particularization,  both  words  and  music  lying  far  beyond  the 
roach  of  the  most  ambitious  amateur  in  the  congregation  :: — 
an  anthem  in  which  the  key-bugles  always  ran  away  at  a  great 
pace,  while  the  bassoon  every  now  and  then  boomed  a  flying 
shot  after  them. 

As  for  the  clergyman,  Mr.  Gilfil,  an  excellent  old  gentle- 
man, who  smoked  very  long  pipes,  and  preached  very  short 
sermons,  I  must  not  speak  of  him,  or  I  might  be  tempted  to 
tell  the  story  of  his  life,  which  had  its  little  romance,  as  most 
lives  have  between  the  ages  of  teetotum  and  tobacco.  And 
at  present  I  am  concerned  with  quite  another  sort  of  clergy- 
man— the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  who  did  not  come  to  Shepper- 
ton until  long  after  Mr.  Gilfil  had  departed  this  life — until 
after  an  interval  in  which  Evangelicalism  and  the  Catholic 
Question  had  begun  to  agitate  the  rustic  mind  with  contro- 
versial debates.  A  Popish  blacksmith  had  produced  a  strong 
Protestant  reaction  by  declaring  that,  as  soon  as  the  Eman- 
cipation Bill  was  passed,  he  should  do  a  great  stroke  of  busi- 
ness in  gridirons ;  and  the  disinclination  of  the  Shepperton 
parishioners  generally  to  dim  the  unique  glory  of  St.  Law- 
rence, rendered  the  Church  and  Constitution  an  affair  of  their 
business  and  bosoms.  A  zealous  Evangelical  preacher  had 
made  the  old  sounding-board  vibrate  with  quite  a  different 
sort  of  elocution  from  Mr.  Gilfil's ;  the  hymn-book  had  almost 
superseded  the  Old  and  New  Versions ;  and  the  great  square 
pews  were  crowded  with  new  faces  from  distant  corners  of 
the  parish — perhaps  from  Dissenting  chapels. 

You  are  not  imagining,  I  hope,  that  Amos  Barton  was  the 
incumbent  of  Shepperton.  He  was  no  such  thing.  Those 
were  days  when  a  man  could  hold  three  small  livings,  starve 
a  curate  apiece  on  two  of  them,  and  live  badly  himself  on 
the  third.  It  was  so  with  the  Vicar  of  Shepperton  ;  a  vicar 
given  to  bricks  and  mortar,  and  thereby  running  into  debt 

1* 


10  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

far  away  in  a  northern  county — who  executed  his  vicarial 
functions  towards  Shepperton  by  pocketing  the  sum  of  thirty- 
five  pounds  ten  per  annum,  the  net  surplus  remaining  to  him 
from  the  proceeds  of  that  living,  after  the  disbursement  of 
eighty  pounds  as  the  annual  stipend  of  his  curate.  And 
now,  pray,  can  you  solve  me  the  following  problem  ?  Given 
a  man  with  a  wife  and  six  children :  let  him  be  obliged  always 
to  exhibit  himself  when  outside  his  own  door  in  a  suit  of  black 
broadcloth,  such  as  will  not  undermine  the  foundations  of 
the  Establishment  by  a  paltry  plebeian  glossiness  or  an  un- 
seemly whiteness  at  the  edges ;  in  a  snowy  cravat,  which  is 
a  serious  investment  of  labor  in  the  hemming,  starching,  and 
ironing  departments  ;  and  in  a  hat  which  shows  no  symptom 
of  taking  to  the  hideous  doctrine  of  expediency,  and  shaping 
itself  according  to  circumstances;  let  him  have  a  parish 
large  enough  to  create  an  external  necessity  for  abundant 
shoe-leather,  and  an  internal  necessity  for  abundant  beef  and 
mutton,  as  well  as  poor  enough  to  require  frequent  priestly 
consolation  in  the  shape  of  shillings  and  sixpences ;  and,  last" 
ly,  let  him  be  compelled,  by  his  own  pride  and  other  people's, 
to  dress  his  wife  and  children  with  gentility  from  bonnet- 
strings  to  shoe-strings.  By  what  process  of  division  can  the 
sum  of  eighty  pounds  per  annum  be  made  to  yield  a  quotient 
which  will  cover  that  man's  weekly  expenses  ?  This  was  the 
problem  presented  by  the  position  of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton, 
as  curate  of  Shepperton,  rather  more  than  twenty  years 
ago. 

What  was  thought  of  this  problem,  and  of  the  man  who 
had  to  work  it  out,  by  some  of  the  well-to-do  inhabitants  of 
Shepperton,  two  years  or  more  after  Mr.  Barton's  arrival 
among  them,  you  shall  hear,  if  you  will  accompany  me  to 
Cross  Farm,  and  to  the  fireside  of  Mrs.  Patten,  a  childless  old 
lady,  who  had  got  rich  chiefly  by  the  negative  process  of 
spending  nothing.  Mrs.  Patten's  passive  accumulation  of 
wealth,  through  all  sorts  of  "  bad  times,"  on  the  farm  of 
which  she  had  been  sole  tenant  since  her  husband's  death, 
her  epigrammatic  neighbor,  Mrs.  Hackit,  sarcastically  ac- 
counted for  by  supposing  that  "  sixpences  grew  on  the  bents 
of  Cross  Farm  ;"  while  Mr.  Hackit,  expressing  his  views  more 
literally,  reminded  his  wife  that  "  money  breeds  money." 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hackit,  from  the  neighboring  farm,  are  Mrs. 
Patten's  guests  this  evening ;  so  is  Mr-  Pilgrim,  the  doctor 
from  the  nearest  market-town,  who,  though  occasionally  af- 
fecting aristocratic  airs,  and  giving  late  dinners  with  enig- 
matic side-dishes  and  poisonous  port,  is  never  so  comfortable 
as  when  he  is  relaxing  his  professional  legs  in  one  of  those 


AMOS   BAKTOX.  11 

excellent  farmhouses  where  the  mice  are  sleek  and  the  mis- 
tress sickly.  And  he  is  at  this  moment  in  clover. 

For  the  flickering  of  Mrs.  Patten's  bright  fire  is  reflected 
in  her  bright  copper  tea-kettle,  the  home-made  muffins  glisten 
with  an  inviting  succulence,  and  Mrs.  Patten's  niece,  a  single 
lady  of  fifty,  who  has  refused  the  most  ineligible  offers  out 
of  devotion  to  her  aged  aunt,  is  pouring  the  rich  cream  into 
the  fragrant  tea  with  a  discreet  liberality. 

Reader !  did  you  ever  taste  such  a  cup  of  tea  as  Miss  Gibba 
is  this  moment  handing  to  Mr.  Pilgrim  ?  Do  you  know  the 
dulcet  strength,  the  animating  blandness  of  tea  sufficiently 
blended  with  real  farmhouse  cream  ?  No — most  likely  you 
are  a  miserable  town-bred  reader,  who  thinks  of  cream  as  a 
thinnish  white  fluid,  delivered  in  infinitesimal  pennyworths 
down  area  steps  ;  or  perhaps,  from  a  presentiment  of  calves' 
brains,  you  refrain  from  any  lacteal  addition,  and  rasp  your 
tongue  with  unmitigated  bohea.  You  have  a  vague  idea  of 
a  milch  6ow  as  probably  a  white-plaster  animal  standing  in  a 
butterman's  window,  and  you  know  nothing  of  the  sweet  his- 
tory of  genuine  cream,  such  as  Miss  Gibb's :  how  it  was  this 
morning  in  the  udders  of  the  large  sleek  beasts,  as  they  stood 
lowing  a  patient  entreaty  under  the  milking-shed  ;  how  it  fell 
wTith  a  pleasant  rhythm  into  Betty's  pail,  sending  a  delicious 
incense  into  the  cool  air ;  how  it  was  carried  into  that  temple 
of  moist  cleanliness,  the  dairy,  where  it  quietly  separated 
itself  from  the  meaner  elements  of  milk,  and  lay  in  mellow- 
ed whiteness,  ready  for  the  skimming-dish  which  transferred 
it  to  Miss  Gibbs's  glass  cream-jug.  If  I  am  right  in  my  con- 
jecture, you  are  unacquainted  with  the  highest  possibilities 
of  tea  ;  and  Mr.  Pilgrim,  who  is  holding  that  cup  in  his  hand, 
has  an  idea  beyond  you. 

Mrs.  Hackit  declines  cream ;  she  has  so  long  abstained 
from  it  with  an  eye  to  the  weekly  butter-money,  that  absti- 
nence, wedded  to  habit,  has  begotten  aversion.  She  is  a  thin 
woman  with  a  chronic  liver-complaint,  which  would  have  se^ 
cured  her  Mr.  Pilgrim's  entire  regard  and  unreserved  good 
word,  even  if  he  had  not  been  in  awe  of  her  tongue,  which  was 
as  sharp  as  his  own  lancet.  She  has  brought  her  knitting — no 
frivolous  fancy  knitting,  but  a  substantial  woollen  stocking ; 
the  click-click  of  her  knitting-needles  is  the  running  accom- 
paniment to  all  her  conversation  ;  and  in  her  utmost  enjoy- 
ment of  spoiling  a  friend's  self-satisfaction,  she  was  never 
known  to  spoil  a  stocking. 

Mrs.  Patten  does  not  admire  this  excessive  click-clicking 
activity.  Quiescence  in  an  easy-chair,  under  the  sense  of 
compound  interest  perpetually  accumulating,  has  long  seem- 


12  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

ed  an  ample  function  to  her,  and  she  does  her  malevolence 
gently.  She  is  a  pretty  little  old  woman  of  eighty,  with  a 
close  cap  and  tiny  flat  white  curls  round  her  face,  as  natty 
and  unsoiled  and  invariable  as  the  waxen  image  of  a  little 
old  lady  under  a  glass  case  ;  once  a  lady's-maid,  and  married 
for  her  beauty.  She  used  to  adore  her  husband,  and  now  she 
adores  her  money,  cherishing  a  quiet  blood-relation's  hatred 
for  her  niece,  Janet  Gibbs,  who,  she  knows,  expects  a  large 
legacy,  and  whom  she  is  determined  to  disappoint.  Her 
money  shall  all  go  in  a  lump  to  a  distant  relation  of  her  hus- 
band's, and  Janet  shall  be  saved  the  trouble  of  pretending  to 
cry,  by  finding  that  she  is  left  with  a  miserable  pittance. 

Mrs.  Patten  has  more  respect  for  her  neighbor  Mr.  Hackit 
than  for  most  people.  Mr.  Hackit  is  a  shrewd,  substantial 
man,  whose  advice  about  crops  is  always  worth  listening  to, 
and  who  is  too  well  off  to  want  to  borrow  money. 

And  now  that  we  are  snug  and  warm  with  this  little  tea- 
party,  while  it  is  freezing  with  February  bitterness  outside, 
we  will  listen  to  what  they  are  talking  about. 

"  So,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  with  his  mouth  only  half  empty  of 
muffin,  "  you  had  a  row  in  Shepperton  Church  last  Sunday. 
I  was  at  Jim  Hood's,  the  bassoon-man's,  this  morning,  attend- 
ing his  wife,  and  he  swears  he'll  be  revenged  on  the  parson — 
a  confounded,  methodistical,  meddlesome  chap,  who  must  be 
putting  his  finger  in  every  pie.  What  was  it  all  about  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  passill  o'  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Hackit,  sticking  one 
thumb  between  the  buttons  of  his  capacious  waistcoat,  and 
retaining  a  pinch  of  snuff  with  the  other — for  he  was  but 
moderately  given  to  "  the  cups  that  cheer  but  not  inebriate," 
and  had  already  finished  his  tea ;  "  they  began  to  sing  the 
wedding  psalm  for  a  new-married  couple,  as  pretty  a  psalm 
an'  as  pretty  a  tune  as  any  in  the  prayer-book.  It's  been 
sung  for  every  new-married  couple  since  I  was  a  boy.  And 
what  can  be  better  ?"  Here  Mr.  Hackit  stretched  out  his  left 
arm,  threw  back  his  head,  and  broke  into  melody — 

"  Oh  what  a  happy  thing  it  is, 

And  joyful  for  to  see 
Brethren  to  dwell  together  in 
Friendship  and  unity.' 

But  Mr.  Barton  is  all  for  the  hymns,  and  a  sort  o'  music  as  I 
can't  join  in  at  all." 

"  And  so,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  recalling  Mr.  Hacket  from  lyr- 
ical reminiscences  to  narrative,  "  he  called  out  Silence !  did 
he  ?  when  he  got  into  the  pulpit ;  and  gave  a  hymn  out  him- 
self to  some  meeting-house  tune  ?" 


AMOS   BARTON.  13 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  stooping  towards  the  candle  to 
pick  up  a  stitch, "  and  turned  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock.  I  oft- 
en say,  when  he  preaches  about  meekness,  he  gives  himself  a 
slap  in  the  face.  He's  like  ine — he's  got  a  temper  of  his 
own." 

"  Rather  a  low-bred  fellow,  I  think,  Barton,"  said  Mr.  Pil- 
grim, who  hated  the  Reverend  Amos  for  two  reasons — be- 
cause he  had  called  in  a  new  doctor,  recently  settled  in  Shep- 
,  perton ;  and  because,  being  himself  a  dabbler  in  drugs,  he 
had  the  credit  of  having  cured  a  patient  of  Mr.  Pilgrim's. 
"  They  say  his  father  was  a  Dissenting  shoemaker ;  and  he's 
half  a  Dissenter  himself.  Why,  doesn't  he  preach  extempore 
in  that  cottage  up  here,  of  a  Sunday  evening  ?" 

"  Tchuh  !" — this  was  Mr.  Hackit's  favorite  interjection — 
"  that  preaching  without  book's  no  good,  only  when  a  man 
has  a  gift,  and  has  the  Bible  at  his  fingers'  ends.  It  was  all 
very  well  for  Parry — he'd  a  gift ;  and  in  my  youth  I've  heard 
the  Ranters  out  o'  doors  in  Yorkshire  go  on  for  an  hour  or 
two  on  end,  without  ever  sticking  fast  a  minute.  There  was 
one  clever  chap,  I  remember,  as  used  to  say, '  You're  like  the 
woodpigeon  ;  it  says  do,  do,  do  all  day,  and  never  sets  about 
any  work  itself.'  That's  bringing  it  home  to  people.  But 
our  parson's  no  gift  at  all  that  way  ;  he  can  preach  as  good 
a  sermon  as  need  be  heard  when  he  writes  it  down.  But 
when  he  tries  to  preach  wi'out  book,  he  rambles  about,  and 
doesn't  stick  to  his  text ;  and  every  now  and  then  he  floun- 
ders about  like  a  sheep  as  has  cast  itself,  and  can't  get  on  its 
legs  again.  You  wouldn't  like  that,  Mrs.  Patten,  if  you  was 
to  go  to  church  now  ?" 

"  Eh,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Patten,  falling  back  in  her  chair,  and 
lifting  up  her  little  withered  hands, "  what  'ud  Mr.  Gilfil  say, 
if  he  was  worthy  to  know  the  changes  as  have  come  about  i' 
the  Church  these  last  ten  years?  I  don't  understand  these 
new  sort  o'  doctrines.  When  Mr.  Barton  comes  to  see  me,  he 
talks  about  nothing  but  my  sins  and  my  need  o'  mai*cy.  Now, 
Mr.  Hackit,  I've  never  been  a  sinner.  From  the  fust  begin- 
ning, when  I  went  into  service,  I  al'ys  did  my  duty  by  my 
emplyers.  I  was  a  good  wife  as  any  in  the  county — never 
aggravated  my  husband.  The  cheese-factor  used  to  say  my 
cheese  was  al'ys  to  be  depended  on.  I've  known  women,  as 
their  cheeses  swelled  a  shame  to  be  seen,  when  their  hus- 
bands had  counted  on  the  cheese-money  to  make  up  their 
rent ;  and  yet  they'd  three  gowns  to  my  one.  If  I'm  not  to 
be  saved,!  know  a  many  as  are  in  a  bad  way.  But  it's  well 
for  me  as  I  can't  go  to  church  any  longer,  for  if  th'  old  sing- 
ers are  to  be  done  away  with,  there'll  be  nothing  left  as  it 


14  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

was  in  Mr.  Patten's  time ;  and  what's  more,  I  hear  you've 
settled  to  pull  the  church  down  and  build  it  up  new  ?" 

Now  the  fact  was  that  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  on  his  last 
visit  to  Mrs.  Patten,  had  urged  her  to  enlarge  her  promised 
subscription  of  twenty  pounds,  representing  to  her  that  she 
was  only  a  steward  of  her  riches,  and  that  she  could  not 
spend  them  more  for  the  glory  of  God  than  by  giving  a 
heavy  subscription  towards  the  rebuilding  of  Shepperton 
Church — a  practical  precept  which  was  not  likely  to  smooth 
the  way  to  her  acceptance  of  his  theological  doctrine.  Mr. 
Hackit,  who  had  more  doctrinal  enlightenment  than  Mrs. 
Patten,  had  been  a  little  shocked  by  the  heathenism  of  her 
speech,  and  was  glad  of  the  new  turn  given  to  the  subject 
by  this  question,  addressed  to  him  as  church-warden  and  an 
authority  in  all  parochial  matters. 

"  Ah,"  he  answered,  "  the  parson's  bothered  us  into  it  at 
last,  and  we're  to  begin  pulling  down  this  spring.  But  we 
have'nt  got  money  enough  yet.  I  was  for  waiting  till  we'd 
made  up  the  sum ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  think  the  congrega- 
tion's fell  off  o'  late,  though  Mr.  Barton  says  that's  because 
there's  been  no  room  for  the  people  when  they've  come. 
You  see,  the  congregation  got  so  large  in  Parry's  time,  the 
people  stood  in  the  aisles ;  but  there's  never  any  crowd  now, 
as  I  can  see." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  whose  good-nature  began  to  act, 
now  that  it  was  a  little  in  contradiction  with  the  dominant 
tone  of  the  conversation, "/  like  Mr.  Barton.  I  think  he's  a 
good  sort  o'  man,  for  all  he's  not  overburden'd  i'  th'  upper 
story ;  and  his  wife's  as  nice  a  lady-like  woman  as  I'd  wish 
to  see.  How  nice  she  keeps  her  children  !  and  little  enough 
money  to  do't  with ;  and  a  delicate  creatur' — six  children, 
and  another  a-coming.  I  don't  know  how  they  make  both 
ends  meet,  I'm  sure,  now  her  aunt  has  left  'em.  But  I  sent 
'em  a  cheese  and  a  sack  o'  potatoes  last  week ;  that's  some- 
thing towards  filling  the  little  mouths." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Hackit, "  and  my  wife  makes  Mr.  Barton  a 
good  stiff  glass  o'  brandy-and-water,when  he  conies  in  to  supper 
after  his  cottage  preaching.  The  parson  likes  it ;  it  puts  a  bit 
o'  color  into  his  face,  and  makes  him  look  a  deal  handsomer." 

This  allusion  to  brandy-and-water  suggested  to  Miss  Gibbs 
the  introduction  of  the  liquor  decanters,  now  that  the  tea 
was  cleared  away;  for  in  bucolic  society  five -and -twenty 
years  ago,  the  human  animal  of  the  male  sex  was  understood 
to  be  perpetually  athirst,  and  "  something  to  drink  "  was  as 
necessary  a  "  condition  of  thought "  as  Time  and  Space. 

,  that  cottage  preaching,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  mixing 


AMOS   BARTON.  15 

himself  a  strong  glass  of"  cold  without,"  "  I  was  talking  about 
it  to  our  Parson  Ely  the  other  day,  and  he  doesn't  approve 
of  it  at  all.  He  said  it  did  as  much  harm  as  good  to  give  a 
too  familiar  aspect  to  religious  teaching.  That  was  what  Ely 
said — it  does  as  much  harm  as  good  to  give  a  too  familiar  as- 
pect to  religious  teaching." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  generally  spoke  with  an  intermittent  kind  of 
splutter ;  indeed,  one  of  his  patients  had  observed  that  it 
was  a  pity  such  a  clever  man  had  a  "  'pediment "  in  his 
speech.  But  when  he  came  to  what  he  conceived  the  pith 
of  his  argument  or  the  point  of  his  joke,  he  mouthed  out  his 
words  with  slow  emphasis  ;  as  a  hen,  when  advertising  her 
accouchement,  passes  at  irregular  intervals  from  pianissimo 
semiquavers  to  fortissimo  crotchets.  He  thought  this  speech 
of  Mr.  Ely's  particularly  metaphysical  and  profound,  and  the 
more  decisive  of  the  question  because  it  was  a  generality 
which  represented  no  particulars  to  his  mind. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  who 
had  always  the  courage  of  her  opinion,  "  but  I  know,  some 
of  our  laborers  and  stockingers  as  used  never  to  come  to 
church,  come  to  the  cottage,  and  that's  better  than  never 
hearing  any  thing  good  from  week's  end  to  week's  end. 
And  there's  that  Track  Society  as  Mr.  Barton  has  begun — 
I've  seen  more  o'  the  poor  people  with  going  4rackinsr,  than  all 
the  time  I've  lived  in  the  parish  before.  And  there'd  need 
be  something  done  among  'em ;  for  the  drinking  at  them  Bene- 
fit Clubs  is  shameful.  There's  hardly  a  steady  man  or  steady 
woman  either,  but  what's  a  Dissenter." 

During  this  speech  of  Mrs.  Hackit's,  Mr.  Pilgrim  had  emit- 
ted a  succession  of  little  snorts,  something  like  the  treble 
grunts  of  a  guinea-pig,  which  were  always  with  him  the  sign 
of  suppressed  disapproval.  But  he  never  contradicted  Mrs. 
Hackit — a  woman  whose  "  pot-luck  "  was  always  t^  be  relied 
on,  and  who  on  her  side  had  unlimited  reliance  on  bleeding, 
blistering,  and  draughts. 

Mrs.  Patten,  however,  felt  equal  disapprobation-  and  had 
no  reasons  for  suppressing  it. 

"  Well,"  she  remarked,  "  I've  heard  of  no  good  f'nm  inter- 
fering with  one's  neighbors,  poor  or  rich.  And  I  hate  the 
sight  o'  women  going  about  trapesing  from  house  to  house  in 
all  weathers,  wet  or  dry,  and  coming  in  with  their  petticoats 
dagged  and  their  shoes  all  over  mud.  Janet  wanted  to  join 
in  the  tracking,  but  I  told  her  I'd  have  nobody  tracking  out 
o'  my  house ;  when  I'm  gone,  she  may  do  as  she  likes.  I  nev- 
er dagged  my  petticoats  in  my  life,  and  I've  no  opinion  o' 
that  sort  o'  religion." 


16  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Hackit,  who  was  fond  of  soothing  the  acer- 
bities of  the  feminine  mind  with  a  jocose  compliment,  "  you 
held  your  petticoats  so  high,  to  show  your  tight  ankles  :  it 
isn't  every  body  as  likes  to  show  her  ankles." 

This  joke  met  with  general  acceptance,  even  from  the 
snubbed  Janet,  whose  ankles  were  only  tight  in  the  sense  of 
looking  extremely  squeezed  by  her  boots.  But  Janet  seemed 
always  to  identify  hei'self  with  her  aunt's  personality,  holding 
her  own  under  protest. 

Under  cover  of  the  general  laughter  the  gentlemen  replen- 
ished their  glasses,  Mr.  Pilgrim  attempting  to  give  his  the 
character  of  a  stirrup-cup  by  observing  that  he  "  must  be  go- 
ing." Miss  Gibbs  seized  this  opportunity  of  telling  Mrs. 
Hackit  that  she  suspected  Betty,  the  dairymaid,  of  frying 
the  best  bacon  for  the  shepherd,  when  he  sat  up  with  her  to 
"  help  brew ;"  whereupon  Mrs.  Hackit  replied  that  she  had 
always  thought  Betty  false  ;  and  Mrs.  Patten  said  there  was 
no  bacon  stolen  when  she  was  able  to  manage.  Mr.  Hackit, 
who  often  complained  that  he  "  never  saw  the  like  to  women 
with  their  maids — he  never  had  any  trouble  with  his  men," 
avoided  listening  to  this  discussion,  by  raising  the  question 
of  vetches  with  Mr.  Pilgrim.  The  stream  of  conversation 
had  thus  diverged ;  and  no  more  was  said  about  the  Rev. 
Amos  Barton,  who  is  the  main  object  of  interest  to  us  just 
now.  So  we  may  leave  Cross  Farm  without  waiting  till 
Mrs.  Hackit,  resolutely  donning  her  clogs  and  wrappings, 
renders  it  incumbent  on  Mr.  Pilgrim  also  to  fulfill  his  fre- 
quent threat  of  going. 


CHAPTER  IL 

IT  was  happy  for  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  that  he  did  not, 
like  us,  overhear  the  conversation  recorded  in  the  last  chap- 
ter. Indeed,  what  mortal  is  there  of  us,  who  would  find  his 
satisfaction  enhanced  by  an  opportunity  of  comparing  the 
picture  he  presents  to  himself  of  his  own  doings,  with  the  pic- 
ture they  make  on  the  mental  retina  of  his  neighbors  ?  We 
are  poor  plants  buoyed  up  by  the  air-vessels  of  our  own  con- 
ceit :  alas  for  us,  if  we  get  a  few  pinches  that  empty  us  of 
that  windy  self-subsistence !  The  very  capacity  for  good 
would  go  out  of  us.  For,  tell  the  most  impassioned  orator, 
suddenly,  that  his  wig  is  awry,  or  his  shirt-lap  hanging  out, 
and  that  he  is  tickling  people  by  the  oddity  of  his  person, 


AMOS    BARTON.  17 

instead  of  thrilling  them  by  the  energy  of  his  periods,  and 
you  would  infallibly  dry  up  the  spring  of  his  eloquence. 
That  is  a  deep  and  wide  saying,  that  no  miracle  can  be 
wrought  without  faith — without  the  worker's  faith  in  him- 
self, as  well  as  the  recipient's  faith  in  him.  And  the  greater 
part  of  the  worker's  faith  in  himself  is  made  up  of  the  faith 
that  others  believe  in  him. 

Let  me  be  persuaded  that  my  neighbor  Jenkins  considers 
me  a  blockhead,  and  I  shall  never  shine  in  conversation  with 
him  any  more.  Let  me  discover  that  the  lovely  Phcebe 
thinks  my  squint  intolerable,  and  I  shall  never  be  able  to  fix 
her  blandly  with  my  disengaged  eye  again. 

Thank  heaven,  then,  that  a  little  illusion  is  left  to  us,  to 
enable  us  to  be  useful  and  agreeable — that  we  don't  know 
exactly  what  our  friends  think  of  us — that  the  world  is  not 
made  of  looking-glass,  to  show  us  just  the  figure  we  are  mak- 
ing, and  just  what  is  going  on  behind  our  backs !  By  the  help 
of  dear  friendly  illusion,  we  are  able  to  dream  that  we  are 
charming — and  our  faces  wear  a  becoming  air  of  self-posses- 
sion ;  we  are  able  to  dream  that  other  men  admire  our 
talents — and  our  benignity  is  undisturbed ;  we  are  able  to 
dream  that  we  are  doing  much  good — and  we  do  a  little. 

Thus  it  was  with  Amos  Barton  on  that  very  Thursday 
evening,  when  he  was  the  subject  of  the  conversation  at 
Cross  Farm.  He  had  been  dining  at  Mr.  Farquhar's,  the 
secondary  squire  of  the  parish,  and,  stimulated  by  unwonted 
gravies  and  port-wine,  had  been  delivering  his  opinion  on  af- 
fairs parochial  and  extra-parochial  with  considerable  anima- 
tion. And  he  wras  now  returning  home  in  the  moonlight — 
a  little  chill,  it  is  true,  for  he  had  just  now  no  greatcoat  com- 
patible with  clerical  dignity,  and  a  fur  boa  round  one's  neck, 
with  a  waterproof  cape  over  one's  shoulders,  doesn't  frighten 
away  the  cold  from  one's  legs ;  but  entirely  unsuspicious, 
not  only  of  Mr.  Hackit's  estimate  of  his  oratorical  powers, 
but  also  of  the  critical  remarks  passed  on  him  by  the  Misses 
Farquhar  as  soon  as  the  drawing-room  door  had  closed  be- 
hind him.  Miss  Julia  had  observed  that  she  never  heard 
any  one  sniff  so  frightfully  as  Mr.  Barton  did — she  had  a 
great  mind  to  offer  him  her  pocket-handkerchief;  and  Miss 
Arabella  wondered  why  he  always  said  he  was  going  for 
to  do  a  thing.  He,  excellent  man  !  was  meditating  fresh 
pastoral  exertions  on  the  morrow ;  he  would  set  on  foot 
his  lending  library  ;  in  which  he  had  introduced  some  books 
that  would  be  a  pretty  sharp  blow  to  the  Dissenters — one 
especially,  purporting  to  be  written  by  a  working  man  who, 
out  of  pure  zeal  for  the  welfare  of  his  class,  took  the  tvouble 


18  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

to  warn  them  in  this  way  against  those  hypocritical  thieves, 
the  Dissenting  preachers.  The  Rev.  Amos  Barton  profound- 
ly believed  in  the  existence  of  that  working  man,  and  had 
thoughts  of  writing  to  him.  Dissent,  he  considered,  would 
have  its  head  bruised  in  Shepperton,  for  did  he  not  attack 
it  in  two  ways?  He  preached  Low-Church  doctrine — as 
evangelical  as  any  thing  to  be  heard  in  the  Independent 
Chapel ;  and  he  made  a  High-Church  assertion  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal powers  and  functions.  Clearly,  the  Dissenters  would  feel 
that  "  the  parson  "  was  too  many  for  them.  Nothing  like  a 
man  who  combines  shrewdness  with  energy.  The  wisdom 
of  the  serpent,  Mr.  Barton  considered,  was  one  of  his  strong 
points. 

Look  at  him  as  he  winds  through  the  little  churchyard ! 
The  silver  light  that  falls  aslant  on  church  and  tomb,  enables 
you  to  see  his  slim  black  figure,  made  all  the  slimmer  by  tight 
pantaloons,  as  it  flits  past  the  pale  gravestones.  He  Avalks 
with  a  quick  step,  and  is  now  rapping  with  sharp  decision  at 
the  vicarage  door.  It  is  opened  without  delay  by  the  nurse, 
cook,  and  housemaid,  all  at  once — that  is  to  say,  by  the  ro- 
bust maid-of-all-work,  Nanny ;  and  as  Mr.  Barton  hangs  up 
his  hat  in  the  passage,  you  see  that  a  narrow  face  of  no  par- 
ticular complexion — even  the  small-pox  that  has  attacked  it 
seems  to  have  been  of  a  mongrel,  indefinite  kind — with  fea- 
tures of  no  particular  shape,  and  an  eye  of  no  particular  ex- 
pression, is  surmounted  by  a  slope  of  baldness  gently  rising 
from  brow  to  crown.  You  judge  him,  rightly,  to  be  about 
forty.  The  house  is  quiet,  for  it  is  half  past  ten,  and  the  chil- 
dren have  long  been  gone  to  bed.  He  opens  the  sitting-room 
door,  but  instead  of  seeing  his  wife,  as  he  expected,  stitching 
with  the  nimblest  of  fingers  by  the  light  of  one  candle, 
he  finds  her  dispensing  with  the  light  of  a  candle  altogether. 
She  is  softly  pacing  up  and  down  by  the  red  firelight,  hold- 
ing in  her  arms  little  Walter,  the  year-old  baby,  who  looks 
over  her  shoulder  with  large  wide-open  eyes,  while  the  pa- 
tient mother  pats  his  back  with  her  soft  hand,  and  glances 
with  a  sigh  at  the  heap  of  large  and  small  stockings  lying 
unmended  on  the  table. 

She  was  a  lovely  woman — Mrs.  Amos  Barton ;  a  large, 
fair,  gentle  Madonna,  with  thick,  close  chestnut  curls  beside 
her  well-rounded  cheeks,  and  with  large,  tender,  short-sighted 
eyes.  The  flowing  lines  of  her  tall  figure  made  the  limpest 
dress  look  graceful,  and  her  old  frayed  black  silk  seemed  to 
repose  on  her  bust  and  limbs  with  a  placid  elegance  and 
sense  of  distinction,  in  strong  contrast  with  the  uneasy  sense 
of  being  no  fit,  that  seemed  to  express  itself  in  the  rustling 


AMOS   BARTON.  19 

of  Mrs.  Farquhar's  gros  de  Naples.  The  caps  she  wove  would 
have  been  pronounced,  when  off  her  head,  utterly  heavy  and 
hideous — for  in  those  days  even  fashionable  caps  were  large 
and  floppy;  but  surmounting  her  long,  arched  neck,  and 
mingling  their  borders  of  cheap  lace  and  ribbon  with  her 
chestnut  curls,  they  seemed  miracles  of  successful  millinery. 
Among  strangers  she  was  shy  and  tremulous  as  a  girl  of  fif- 
teen ;  she  blushed  crimson  if  any  one  appealed  to  her  opin- 
ion ;  yet  that  tall,  graceful,  substantial  presence  was  so  im- 
posing in  its  mildness,  that  men  spoke  to  her  with  an  agree- 
able sensation  of  timidity. 

Soothing,  unspeakable  charm  of  gentle  womanhood  !  which 
supersedes  all  acquisitions,  all  accomplishments.  You  would 
never  have  asked,  at  any  period  of  Mrs.  Amos  Barton's  life,  if  she 
sketched  or  played  the  piano.  You  would  even  perhaps  have 
been  rather  scandalized  if  she  had  descended  from  the  serene 
dignity  of  being  to  the  assiduous  unrest  of  doing.  Happy  the 
man,  you' would  have  thought,  whose  eye  will  rest  on  her  in 
the  pauses  of  his  fireside  reading — whose  hot  aching  forehead 
will  be  soothed  by  the  contact  of  her  cool,  soft  hand — who 
will  recover  himself  from  dejection  at  his  mistakes  and  fail- 
ures in  the  loving  light  of  her  unreproaching  eyes!  You 
would  not,  perhaps,  have  anticipated  that  this  bliss  would  fall 
to  the  share  of  precisely  such  a  man  as  Amos  Barton,  whom 
you  have  already  surmised  not  to  have  the  refined  sensibilities 
for  which  you  might  have  imagined  Mrs.  Barton's  qualities 
to  be  destined  by  pre-established  harmony.  But  I,  for  one, 
do  not  grudge  Amos  Barton  his  sweet  wife.  I  have  all  my  life 
had  a  sympathy  for  mongrel,  ungainly  dogs,  who  are  nobody's 
pets ;  and  I  would  rather  surprise  one  of  them  by  a  pat  and 
a  pleasant  morsel,  than  meet  the  condescending  advances  of 
the  loveliest  Skye-terrier  who  has  his  cushion  by  my  lady's 
chair.  That,  to  be  sure,  is  not  the  way  of  the  world  :  if  it 
happens  to  see  a  fellow  of  fine  proportions  and  aristocratic 
mien,  who  makes  no  faux  pas,  and  wins  golden  opinions  from 
all  sorts  of  men,  it  straightway  picks  out  for  him  the  loveliest 
of  unmarried  women,  and  says,  There  would  be  a  proper 
match !  Not  at  all,  say  I :  let  that  successful,  well-shapen, 
discreet  and  able  gentleman  put  up  with  something  less  than 
the  best  in  the  matrimonial  department;  and  let  the  sweet 
woman  go  to  make  sunshine  and  a  soft  pillow  for  the  poor 
devil  whose  legs  are  not  models,  whose  efforts  are  often  blun- 
ders, and  who  in  general  gets  more  kicks  than  halfpence. 
She — the  sweet  woman — will  like  it  as  well ;  for  her  sublime 
capacity  of  loving  will  have  all  the  more  scope ;  and  I  ven- 
ture to  say,  Mrs.  Barton's  nature  would  never  have  grown 


20  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

half  so  angelic  if  she  had  married  the  man  you  would  perhaps 
have  had  in  your  eye  for  her — a  man  with  sufficient  income 
and  abundant  personal  eclat.  Besides,  Amos  was  an  affec- 
tionate husband  and,  in  his  way,  valued  his  wife  as  his  best 
treasure. 

But  now  he  has  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  said, "  Well, 
Milly !" 

"  Well,  dear  !"  was  the  corresponding  greeting,  made  elo- 
quent by  a  smile. 

"  So  that  young  rascal  won't  go  to  sleep  !  Can't  you  give 
him  to  Nanny  ?" 

"  Why,  Nanny  has  been  busy  ironing  this  evening ;  but  I 
think  I'll  take  him  to  her  now."  And  Sirs.  Barton  glided  to- 
wards the  kitchen,  while  her  husband  ran  up  stairs  to  put  on 
his  maize-colored  dressing-gown,  in  which  costume  he  was 
quietly  filling  his  long  pipe  when  his  wife  returned  to  the  sit- 
ting-room. Maize  is  a  color  that  decidedly  did  not  suit  his 
complexion,  and  it  is  one  that  soon  soils ;  why,  then,  did  Mr. 
Barton  select  it  for  domestic  wear  ?  Perhaps  because  he  had 
a  knack  of  hitting  on  the  wrong  thing  in  garb  as  well  as  in 
grammar. 

Mrs.  Barton  now  lighted  her  candle,  and  seated  herself  be- 
fore her  heap  of  stockings.  She  had  something  disagreeable  to 
tell  her  husband,  but  she  would  not  enter  on  it  at  once. 

"  Have  you  had  a  nice  evening,  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,  pretty  well.  Ely  was  there  to  dinner,  but  went 
away  rather  early.  Miss  Arabella  is  setting  her  cap  at  him 
with  a  vengeance.  But  I  don't  think  he's  much  smitten.  I've 
a  notion  Ely's  engaged  to  some  one  at  a  distance,  and  will  as- 
tonish all  the  ladies  who  are  languishing  for  him  here,  by 
bringing  home  his  bride  one  of  these  days.  Ely's  a  sly  dog : 
he'll  like  that." 

"  Did  the  Farquhars  say  any  thing  about  the  singing  last 
Sunday?" 

"Yes;  Farquhar  said  he  thought  it  was  time  there  was 
some  improvement  in  the  choir.  But  he  was  rather  scandal- 
ized-at  my  setting  the  tune  of '  Lydia.'  He  says  he's  always 
hearing  it  as  he  passes  the  Independent  meeting."  Here  Mr. 
Barton  laughed — he  had  a  way  of  laughing  at  criticisms  that 
other  people  thought  damaging — and  thereby  showed  the  re- 
mainder of  a  set  of  teeth  which,  like  the  remnants  of  the  Old 
Guard,  were  few  in  number,  and  very  much  the  worse  for  wear. 
"  But,"  he  continued, "  Mrs.  Farquhar  talked  the  most  about 
Mr.  Bridmain  and  the  Countess.  She  has  taken  up  all  the 
gossip  about  them,  and  wanted  to  convert  me  to  her  opinion, 
but  I  told  her  pretty  strongly  what  I  thought." 


AMOS    BARTON.  21 

"  Dear  me  !  why  will  people  take  so  much  pains  to  find  out 
evil  about  others  ?  I  have  had  a  note  from  the  Countess  since 
you  went,  asking  us  to  dine  with  them  on  Friday." 

Here  Mrs.  Barton  reached  the  note  from  the  mantelpiece, 
and  gave  it  to  her  husband.  We  will  look  over  his  shoulder 
while  he  reads  it : 

"  SWEETEST  MILLY, — Bring  your  lovely  face  with  your  hus- 
band to  dine  with  us  on  Friday  at  seven — do.  If  not,  I  will  be 
Bulky  with  you  till  Sunday,  when  I  shall  be  obliged  to  see 
you,  and  shall  long  to  kiss  you  that  very  moment. — Yours, 
according  to  your  answer,  CAROLINE  CZERLASKI." 

"  Just  like  her,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  Barton.  "  I  suppose 
we  can  go  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  no  engagement.  The  Clerical  Meeting  is 
to-morrow,  you  know." 

"  And,  dear,  Woods  the  butcher  called,  to  say  he  must  have 
some  money  next  week.  He  has  a  payment  to  make  up." 

This  announcement  made  Mr.  Barton  thoughtful  He  puff- 
ed more  rapidly,  and  looked  at  the  fire. 

"  I  think  I  must  ask  Hackit  to  lend  me  twenty  pounds,  for 
it  is  nearly  two  months  till  Lady-day,  and  we  can't  give 
Woods  our  last  shilling." 

"  I  hardly  like  you  to  ask  Mr.  Hackit,  dear — he  and  Mrs. 
Hackit  have  been  so  very  kind  to  us ;  they  have  sent  us  so 
many  things  lately." 

"  Then  I  must  ask  Oldinport.  I'm  going  to  write  to  him 
to-morrow  morning,  for  to  tell  him  the  arrangement  I've  been 
thinking  of  about  having  service  in  the  workhouse  while  the 
church  is  being  enlarged.  If  he  agrees  to  attend  service  there 
once  or  twice,  the  other  people  will  come.  Net  the  large  fish, 
and  you're  sure  to  have  the  small  fry." 

"  I  wish  we  could  do  without  borrowing  money,  and  yet  I 
don't  see  how  we  can.  Poor  Fred  must  have  some  new 
shoes ;  I  couldn't  let  him  go  to  Mrs.  Bond's  yesterday  because 
his  toes  were  peeping  out,  dear  child ;  and  I  can't  let  him 
walk  anywhere  except  in  the  garden.  He  must  have  a  pair 
before  Sunday.  Really,  boots  and  shoes  are  the  greatest 
trouble  of  my  life.  Every  thing  else  one  can  turn  and  turn 
about,  and  make  old  look  like  new ;  but  there's  no  coaxing 
boots  and  shoes  to  look  better  than  they  are." 

Mrs.  Barton  was  playfully  undervaluing  her  skill  in  meta- 
morphosing boots  and  shoes.  She  had  at  that  moment  on 
her  feet  a  pair  of  slippers  which  had  long  ago  lived  through 
the  prunella  phase  of  their  existence,  and  were  now  running 


22  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

a  respectable  career  as  black  silk  slippers,  having  been  neatly 
covered  with  that  material  by  Mrs.  Barton's  own  neat  fingers. 
Wonderful  fingers  those  !  they  were  never  empty;  for  if  she 
went  to  spend  a  few  hours  with  a  friendly  parishioner,  out 
came  her  thimble  and  a  piece  of  calico  or  muslin,  which,  be- 
fore she  left,  had  become  a  mysterious  little  garment  with  all 
sorts  of  hemmed  ins  and  outs.  She  was  even  trying  to  per- 
suade her  husband  to  leave  off  tight  pantaloons,  because  if  he 
would  wear  the  ordinary  gun-cases,  she  knew  she  could  make 
them  so  well  that  no  one  would  suspect  the  sex  of  the  tailor. 

But  by  this  time  Mr.  Barton  has  finished  his  pipe,  the  can- 
dle begins  to  burn  low,  and  Mrs.  Barton  goes  to  see  if  Nan- 
ny has  succeeded  in  lulling  Walter  to  sleep.  Nanny  is  that 
moment  putting  him  in  the  little  cot  by  his  mother's  bedside ; 
the  head,  with  its  thin  wavelets  of  brown  hair,  indents  the  lit- 
tle pillow  ;  and  a  tiny,  waxen,  dimpled  fist  hides  the  rosy  lips, 
for  baby  is  given  to  the  infantine  peccadillo  of  thumb-suck- 
ing. 

So  Nanny  could  now  join  in  the  short  evening  prayer,  and 
all  could  go  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Barton  carried  up  stairs  the  remainder  of  her  heap  of 
stockings,  and  laid  them  on  a  table  close  to  her  bedside,  where 
also  she  placed  a  warm  shawl,  removing  her  candle,  before  she 
put  it  out,  to  a  tin  socket  fixed  at  the  head  of  her  bed.  Her 
body  was  very  weary,  but  her  heart  was  not  heavy,  in  spite 
of  Mr.  Woods  the  butcher,  and  the  transitory  nature  of  shoe- 
leather;  for  her  heart  so  overflowed  with  love,  she  felt  sure 
she  was  near  a  fountain  of  love  that  would  care  for  her  hus- 
band and  babes  better  than  she  could  foresee ;  so  she  was 
soon  asleep.  But  about  half  past  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
if  there  were  any  angels  watching  round  her  bed — and  angels 
might  be  glad  of  such  an  office — they  saw  Mrs.  Barton  rise 
up  quietly,  careful  not  to  disturb  the  slumbering  Amos,  who 
was  snoring  the  snore  of  the  just,  light  her  candle,  prop  her- 
self upright  with  the  pillows,  throw  the  warm  shawl  round 
her  shoulders,  and  renew  her  attack  on  the  heap  of  undarned 
stockings.  She  darned  away  until  she  heard  Nanny  stirring, 
and  then  drowsiness  came  with  the  dawn ;  the  candle  was  put 
out,  and  she  sank  into  a  doze.  But  at  nine  o'clock  she  was 
at  the  breakfast-table  busy  cutting  bread-and-butter  for  five 
hungry  mouths,  while  Nanny,  baby  on  one  arm,  in  rosy  cheeks, 
fat  neck,  and  night-gown,  brought  in  a  jug  of  hot  milk-and- 
water.  Nearest  her  mother  sits  the  nine-year-old  Patty,  the 
eldest  child,  whose  sweet  fair  face  is  already  rather  grave 
sometimes,  and  who  always  wants  to  run  up  stairs  to  save 
mamma's  legs,  which  get  so  tired  of  an  evening.  Then  there 


AMOS   BARTON.  23 

arc  four  other  blond  heads — two  boys  and  two  girls,  gradual- 
ly decreasing  in  size  down  to  Chubby,  who  is  making  a 
round  O  of  her  mouth  to  receive  a  bit  of  papa's  "baton." 
Papa's  attention  was  divided  between  petting  Chubby,  re- 
buking the  noisy  Fred,  which  he  did  with  a  somewhat  exces- 
sive sharpness,  and  eating  his  own  breakfast.  He  did  not 
yet  look  at  Mamma,  and  did  not  know  that  her  cheek  was 
paler  than  usual.  But  Patty  whispered,  "  Mamma,  have  you 
the  headache?" 

Happily  coal  was  cheap  in  the  neighborhood  of  Sheppei*- 
ton,  and  Mr.  Hackit  would  any  time  let  his  horses  draw  a 
load  for  "  the  parson  "  without  charge ;  so  there  was  a  blaz- 
ing fire  in  the  sitting-room,  and  not  without  need,  for  the  vicar- 
age garden,  as  they  looked  out  on  it  from  the  bow-window, 
was  hard  with  black  frost,  and  the  sky  had  the  white,  woolly 
look  that  portends  snow. 

Breakfast  over,  Mr.  Barton  mounted  to  his  study,  and  oc- 
cupied himself  in  the  first  place  with  his  letter  to  Mr.  Oldin- 
port.  It  was  very  much  the  same  sort  of  letter  as  most  cler- 
gymen would  have  written  under  the  same  circumstances, 
except  that  instead  of  perambulate,  the  Rev.  Amos  wrote  pre- 
ambulate,  and  instead  of  "  if  haply,"  "  if  happily,"  the  contin- 
gency indicated  being  the  reverse  of  happy.  Mr.  Barton  had 
not  the  gift  of  perfect  accuracy  in  English  orthography  and 
syntax,  which  was  unfortunate,  as  he  was  known  not  to  be 
a  Hebrew  scholar,  and  not  in  the  least  suspected  of  being 
an  accomplished  Grecian.  These  lapses,  in  a  man  who  had 
gone  through  the  Eleusinian  Mysteries  of  a  university  educa- 
tion, surprised  the  young  ladies  of  his  parish  extremely;  es- 
pecially the  Misses  Farquhar,  whom  he  had  once  addressed 
in  a  letter  as  Dear  Mads,  apparently  an  abbreviation  for 
Madams.  The  persons  least  surprised  at  the  Rev.  Amos's 
deficiencies  were  his  clerical  brethren,  who  had  gone  through 
the  mysteries  themselves. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  Mr.  Barton  walked  forth  in  cape  and 
boa,  with  the  sleet  driving  in  his  face,  to  read  prayers  at  the 
workhouse,  euphuistically  called  the  "  College."  The  College 
was  a  huge  square  stone  building,  standing  on  the  best  apol- 
ogy for  an  elevation  of  ground  that  could  be  seen  for  about 
ten  miles  round  Shepperton.  A  flat  ugly  district  this;  de- 
pressing enough  to  look  at  even  on  the  brightest  days.  The 
roads  are  black  with  coal-dust,  the  brick  houses  dingy  with 
smoke :  and  at  that  time — the  time  of  handloom  weavers — 
every  other  cottage  had  a  loom  at  its  windoAV,  where  you 
might  sec  a  pale,  sickly-looking  man  or  woman  pressing  a 
narrow  chest  against  a  board,  and  doing  a  sort  of  treadmill 


24  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

work  with  legs  and  arms.  A  troublesome  district  for  a  cler- 
gyman ;  at  least  to  one  who,  like  Amos  Barton,  understood 
the  "cure  of  souls  "  in  something  more  than  an  official  sense; 
for  over  and  above  the  rustic  stupidity  furnished  by  the  farm- 
laborers,  the  miners  brought  obstreperous  animalism,  and  the 
weavers  an  acrid  Radicalism  and  Dissent.  Indeed,  Mrs. 
Hackit  often  observed  that  the  colliers,  who  many  of  them 
earned  better  wages  than  Mr.  Barton, "  passed  their  time  in 
doing  nothing  but  swilling  ale  and  smoking,  like  the  beasts 
that  perish  "  (speaking,  we  may  presume,  in  a  remotely  ana- 
logical sense) ;  and  in  some  of  the  ale-house  corners  the  drink 
was  flavored  by  a  dingy  kind  of  infidelity,  something  like 
rinsings  of  Tom  Paine  in  ditch-water.  A  certain  amount  of 
religious  excitement  created  by  the  popular  preaching  of  Mr. 
Parry,  Amos's  predecessor,  haci  nearly  died  out,  and  the  re- 
ligious life  of  Shepperton  was  falling  back  towards  low-water 
mark.  Here,  you  perceive,  was  a  terrible  stronghold  of  Sa- 
tan; and  you  may  well  pity  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  who  had 
to  stand  single-handed  and  summon  it  to  surrender.  We 
read,  indeed,  that  the  walls  of  Jericho  fell  down  before  the 
sound  of  trumpets ;  but  we  nowhere  hear  that  those  trumpets 
were  hoarse  and  feeble.  Doubtless  they  were  trumpets  that 
gave  forth  clear  ringing  tones,  and  sent  a  mighty  vibration 
through  brick  and  mortar.  But  the  oratory  of  the  Rev.  Amos 
resembled  rather  a  Belgian  railway-horn,  which  shows  praise- 
worthy intentions  inadequately  fulfilled.  He  often  missed 
the  right  note  both  in  public  and  private  exhortation,  and 
got  a  little  angry  in  consequence.  For  though  Amos  thought 
himself  strong,  he  did  not  feel  himself  strong.  Nature  had 
given  him  the  opinion,  but  not  the  sensation.  Without  that 
opinion  he  would  probably  never  have  worn  cambric  bands, 
but  would  have  been  an  excellent  cabinetmaker  and  deacon 
of  an  Independent  church,  as  his  father  was  before  him  (he 
was  not  a  shoemaker,  as  Mr.  Pilgrim  had  reported).  He 
might  then  have  sniffed  long  and  loud  in  the  corner  of  his 
pew  in  Gun  Street  Chapel ;  he  might  have  indulged  in  halt- 
ing rhetoric  at  prayer-meetings,  and  have  spoken  faulty  Eng- 
lish in  private  life  ;  and  these  little  infirmities  would  not  have 
prevented  him,  honest,  faithful  man  that  he  was,  from  being 
a  shining  light  in  the  Dissenting  circle  of  Bridgeport.  A 
tallow  dip,  of  the  long-eight  description,  is  an  excellent  thing 
in  the  kitchen  candlestick,  and  Betty's  nose  and  eye  are  not 
sensitive  to  the  difference  between  it  and  the  finest  wax ;  it 
is  only  when  you  stick  it  in  the  silver  candlestick,  and  intro- 
duce it  into  the  drawing-room,  that  it  seems  plebeian,  dim, 
and  ineffectual.  Alas  for  the  worthy  man  who,  like  that  can- 


AMOS   BARTON.  25 

die,  gets  himself  into  the  wrong  place  !  It  is  only  the  very 
largest  souls  who  will  be  able  to  appreciate  and  pity  him — 
who  will  discern  and  love  sincerity  of  purpose  amid  all  the 
bundling  feebleness  of  achievement. 

But  now  Amos  Barton  has  made  his  way  through  the  sleet 
as  far  as  the  College,  has  thrown  off  his  hat,  cape,  and  boa, 
and  is  reading,  in  the  dreary  stone-floored  dining-room,  a  por- 
tion of  the  moniing  service  to  the  inmates  seated  on  the 
benches  before  him.  Remember,  the  New  Poor-law  had  not 
yet  come  into  operation,  and  Mr.  Barton  was  not  acting  as 
paid  chaplain  of  the  Union,  but  as  the  pastor  who  had  the 
cure  of  all  souls  in  his  parish,  pauper  as  well  as  other.  After 
the  prayers  he  always  addressed  to  them  a  short  discourse 
on  some  subject  suggested  by  the  lesson  for  the  day,  striving 
if  by  this  means  some  edifying  matter  might  find  its  way 
into  the  pauper  mind  and  conscience — perhaps  a  task  as  try- 
ing as  you  could  well  imagine  to  the  faith  and  patience  of 
any  honest  clergyman.  For,  on  the  very  first  bench,  these 
were  the  faces  on  which  his  eye  had  to  rest,  watching  wheth- 
er there  was  any  stirring  under  the  stagnant  surface. 

Right  in  front  of  him — probably  because  he  was  stone-deaf, 
and  it  was  deemed  more  edifying  to  hear  nothing  at  a  short 
distance  than  at  a  long  one — sat  "  Old  Maxura,"  as  he  was 
familiarly  called,  his  real  patronymic  remaining  a  mystery  to 
most  persons.  A  fine  philological  sense  discerns  in  this  cog- 
nomen an  indication  that  the  pauper  patriarch  had  once  been 
considered  pithy  and  sententious  in  his  speech  ;  but  now  the 
weight  of  ninety-five  years  lay  heavy  on  his  tongue  as  well 
as  in  his  ears,  and  he  sat  before  the  clergyman  with  protrud- 
od  chin,  and  munching  mouth,  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  look 
at  emptiness. 

Next  to  him  sat  Poll  Fodge — known  to  the  magistracy  of 
lu-r  county  as  Mary  Higgins — a  one-eyed  woman,  with  a 
scarred  and  seamy  face,  the  most  notorious  rebel  in  the  work- 
house, said  to  have  once  thrown  her  broth  over  the  master's 
coat-tails,  and  who,  in  spite  of  nature's  apparent  safeguards 
:i-_::iinst  that  contingency,  had  contributed  to  the  perpetua- 
tion of  the  Fodge  characteristics  in  the  person  of  a  small  boy, 
who  was  behaving  naughtily  on  one  of  the  back  benches. 
Miss  Fodge  fixed  her  one  sore  eye  on  Mr.  Barton  with  a  sort 
of  hardy  defiance. 

Beyond  this  member  of  the  softer  sex,  at  the  end  of  the 
bench,  sat  "  Silly  Jim,"  a  young  man  afflicted  with  hydro- 
cephalus,  who  rolled  his  head  from  side  to  side,  and  gazed  at 
the  point  of  his  nose.  These  were  the  supporters  of  Old 
Maxum  on  his 


26 

On  his  left  sat  Mr.  Fitchett,  a  tall  fellow,  who  had  once 
been  a  footman  in  the  Oldinport  family,  and  in  that  giddy 
elevation  had  enunciated  a  contemptuous  opinion  of  boiled 
beef,  which  had  been  traditionally  handed  down  in  Shepper- 
ton  as  the  direct  cause  of  his  ultimate  reduction  to  pauper 
commons.  His  calves  were  now  shrunken,  and  his  hair  was 
gray  without  the  aid  of  powder ;  but  he  still  carried  his  chin 
as  if  he  were  conscious  of  a  stiff  cravat ;  he  set  his  dilapida- 
ted hat  on  with  a  knowing  inclination  towards  the  left  ear ; 
and  when  he  was  on  field-work,  he  carted  and  uncarted  the 
manure  with  a  sort  of  flunkey  grace,  the  ghost  of  that  jaunty 
demeanor  with  which  he  used  to  usher  in  my  lady's  morning 
visitors.  The  flunkey  nature  was  nowhere  completely  sub- 
dued but  in  his  stomach,  and  he  still  divided  society  into 
gentry,  gentry's  flunkeys,  and  the  people  who  provided  for 
them.  A  clergyman  without  a  flunkey  was  an  anomaly,  be- 
longing to  neither  ofthese  classes.  Mr.  Fitchett  had  an  irre- 
pressible tendency  to  drowsiness  under  spiritual  instruction, 
and  in  the  recurrent  regularity  with  which  he  dozed  oif  until 
he  nodded  and  awaked  himself,  he  looked  not  unlike  a  piece 
of  mechanism,  ingeniously  contrived  for  measuring  the  length 
of  Mr.  Barton's  discourse. 

Perfectly  wide-awake,  on  the  contrary,  was  his  left-hand 
neighbor,  Mrs.  Brick,  one  of  those  hard,  undying  old  women, 
to  whom  age  seems  to  have  given  a  network  of  wrinkles,  as 
a  coat  of  magic  armor  against  the  attacks  of  winters,  warm 
or  cold.  The  point  on  which  Mrs.  Brick  was  still  sensitive — 
the  theme  on  which  you  might  possibly  excite  her  hope  and 
fear  —  was  snuff*.  It  seemed  to  be  an  embalming  powder, 
helping  her  soul  to  do  the  office  of  salt. 

And  now,  eke  out  an  audience  of  which  this  front  bench- 
ful  was  a  sample  with  a  certain  number  of  refractory  chil- 
dren, over  whom  Mr.  Spratt,  the  master  of  the  workhouse, 
exercised  an  irate  surveillance,  and  I  think  you  will  admit 
that  the  university-taught  clergyman,  whose  office  it  is  to 
bring  home  the  gospel  to  a  handful  of  such  souls,  has  a  suf- 
ficiently hard  task.  For,  to  have  any  chance  of  success,  short 
of  miraculous  intervention,  he  must  bring  his  geographical, 
chronological,  exegetical  mind  pretty  nearly  to  the  pauper 
point  of  view,  or  of  no  view ;  he  must  have  some  approxi- 
mate conception  of  the  mode  in  which  the  doctrines  that 
have  so  much  vitality  in  the  plenum  of  his  own  brain  will 
comport  themselves  in  vacuo — that  is  to  say,  in  a  brain  that 
is  neither  geographical,  chronological,  nor  exegetical.  It  is 
a  flexible  imagination  that  can  take  such  a  leap  as  that,  and 
an  adroit  tongue  that  can  adapt  its  speech  to  so  unfamiliar  a 


AMOS   BARTON.  27 

position.  The  Rev.  Amos  Barton  had  neither  that  flexible 
imagination,  nor  that  adroit  tongue.  He  talked  of  Israel  and 
its  sins,  of  chosen  vessels,  of  the  Paschal  lamb,  of  blood  as  a 
medium  of  reconciliation  ;  and  he  strove  in  this  way  to  con- 
vey religious  truth  within  reach  of  the  Fodge  and  Fitchett 
mind.  This  very  morning,  the  first  lesson  was  the  twelfth 
chapter  of  Exodus,  and  Mr.  Barton's  exposition  turned  on 
unleavened  bread.  Nothing  in  the  world  more  suited  to  the 
'simple  understanding  than  instruction  through  familiar  type* 
and  symbols!  But  there  is  always  this  danger  attending  it, 
that  the  interest  or  comprehension  of  your  hearers  may  stop 
short  precisely  at  the  point  where  your  spiritual  interpreta- 
tion begins.  And  Mr.  Barton  this  morning  succeeded  in  car- 
rying the  pauper  imagination  to  the  dough-tub,  but  unfortu- 
nately was  not  able  to  carry  it  upward  from  that  well-known 
object  to  the  unknown  truths  which  it  was  intended  to  shad- 
ow forth. 

Alas !'  a  natural  incapacity  for  teaching,  finished  by  keep- 
ing "  terms  "  at  Cambridge,  where  there  are  able  mathemati- 
cians, and  butter  is  sold  by  the  yard,  is  not  apparently  the 
medium  through  which  Christian  doctrine  will  distill  as  wel- 
come dew  on  withered  souls. 

And  so,  while  the  sleet  outside  was  turning  to  unquestion- 
able snow,  and  the  stony  dining-roorn  looked  darker  and 
drearier,  and  Mr.  Fitchett  was  nodding  his  lowest,  and  Mr. 
Spratt  was  boxing  the  boys'  ears  with  a  constant  ririforzando, 
as  he  felt  more  keenly  the  approach  of  dinner-time,  Mr.  Bar- 
ton Avound  up  his  exhortation  with  something  of  the  Febru- 
ary chill  at  his  heart  as  well  as  his  feet.  Mr.  Fitchett, 
thoroughly  roused,  now  the  insti'uction  was  at  an  end,  obse- 
quiously and  gracefully  advanced  to  help  Mr.  Barton  in 
putting  on  his  cape,  while  Mrs.  Brick  rubbed  her  withered 
forefinger  round  and  round  her  little  shoe-shaped  snuff-box, 
vainly  seeking  for  the  fraction  of  a  pinch.  I  can't  help  think- 
ing that  if  Mr.  Barton  had  shaken  into  that  little  box  a  small 
portion  of  Scotch  high-dried,  he  might  have  produced  some- 
thing more  like  an  amiable  emotion  in  Mrs.  Brick's  mind 
than  any  thing  she  had  felt  under  his  morning's  exposition 
of  the  unleavened  bread.  But  our  good  Amos  labored  under 
a  deficiency  of  small  tact  as  well  as  of  small  cash  ;  and  when 
he  observed  the  action  of  the  old  woman's  forefinger,  he  said, 
in  his  brusque  way,  "  So  your  snuff  is  all  gone,  eh  ?" 

Mrs.  Brick's  eyes  twinkled  with  the  visionary  hope  that 
the  parson  might  be  intending  to  replenish  her  box,  at  least 
mediately,  through  the  present  of  a  small  copper. 

"  Ah,  well !  you'll  soou  be  going  where  there  is  no  more 


28  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

snuff.  You'll  be  in  need  of  mercy  then.  You  must  remem- 
ber that  you  may  have  to  seek  for  mercy  and  not  find  it, 
just  as  you're  seeking  for  snuff." 

At  the  first  sentence  of  this  admonition,  the  twinkle  sub- 
Bided  from  Mrs.  Brick's  eyes.  The  lid  of  her  box  went  "  click !" 
and  her  heart  was  shut  up  at  the  same  moment. 

But  now  Mr.  Barton's  attention  was  called  for  by  Mr, 
Spratt,  who  was  dragging  a  small  and  unwilling  boy  from 
the  rear.  Mr.  Spratt  was  a  small-featured,  small-statured 
man,  with  a  remarkable  power  of  language,  mitigated  by  hes- 
itation, who  piqued  himself  on  expressing  unexceptionable 
sentiments  in  unexceptionable  language  on  all  occasions. 

"Mr.  Barton, sir — aw — aw — excuse  my  trespassing  on  your 
time — aw — to  beg  that  you  will  administer  a  rebuke  to  this 
boy :  he  is — aw — aw — most  inveterate  in  ill-behavior  during 
service-time." 

The  inveterate  culprit  was  a  boy  of  seven,  vainly  contend- 
ing against  "  candles  "  at  his  nose  by  feeble  sniffing.  But  no 
sooner  had  Mr.  Spratt  uttered  his  impeachment,  than  Miss 
Fodge  rushed  forward  and  placed  herself  between  Mr.  Bar- 
ton and  the  accused. 

"  That's  my  child,  Muster  Barton,"  she  exclaimed,  further 
manifesting  her  maternal  instincts  by  applying  her  apron  to 
her  offspring's  nose.  "  He's  al'ys  a-findin'  faut  wi'  him,  and 
a-poundin'  him  for  nothin'.  Let  him  goo  an'  eat  his  roost 
goose  as  is  a-smellin'  up  in  our  noses  while  we're  a-swallering 
them  greasy  broth,  and  let  my  boy  alooan." 

Mr.  Spratt's  small  eyes  flashed,  and  he  was  in  danger  of  ut- 
tering sentiments  not  unexceptionable  before  the  clergyman ; 
but  Mr.  Barton,  foreseeing  that  a  prolongation  of  this  episode 
would  not  be  to  edification,  said, "  Silence  !"  in  his  severest 
tones. 

"  Let  me  hear  no  abuse.  Your  boy  is  not  likely  to  behave 
well,  if  you  set  him  the  example  of  being  saucy."  Then 
stooping  down  to  Master  Fodge,  and  taking  him  by  the 
shoulder,  "  Do  you  like  being  beaten  ?" 

"No-a." 

"  Then  what  a  silly  boy  you  are  to  be  naughty.  If  you 
were  not  naughty,  you  wouldn't  be  beaten.  But  if  you 
are  naughty,  God  will  be  angry,  as  well  as  Mr.  Spratt ;  and 
God  can  burn  you  forever.  That  will  be  worse  than  being 
beaten." 

Master  Fodge's  countenance  was  neither  affirmative  nor 
negative  of  this  proposition. 

"  But,"  continued  Mr.  Barton,  "  if  you  will  be  a  good  boy, 
God  will  love  you,  and  you  will  grow  up  to  be  a  good  man. 


AMOS    BARTON.  29 

Now,  let  me  hear  next  Thursday  that  you  have  been  a  good 
boy." 

Master  Fodge  had  no  distinct  vision  of  the  benefit  that 
would  accrue  to  him  from  this  change  of  courses.  But  Mr. 
Barton,  being  aware  that  Miss  Fodge  had  touched  on  a  deli- 
cate subject  in  alluding  to  the  roast  goose,  was  determined 
to  witness  no  more  polemics  between  her  and  Mr.  Spratt ;  so,v 
saying  good-morning  to  the  latter,  he  hastily  left  the  College. 

The  snow  was  falling  in  thicker  and  thicker  flakes,  and  al- 
ready the  vicarage-garden  was  cloaked  in  white  as  he  passed 
through  the  gate.  Mrs.  Barton  heard  him  open  the  door,  and 
ran  out  of  the  sitting-room  to  meet  him. 

"  I'm  afraid  your  feet  are  very  wet,  dear.  What  a  terrible 
morning !  Let  me  take  your  hat.  Your  slippers  are  at  the 
fire." 

Mr.  Barton  was  feeling  a  little  cold  and  cross.  It  is  diffi- 
cult, when  you  have  been  doing  disagreeable  duties,  without 
praise,  on  a  snowy  day,  to  attend  to  the  very  minor  morals. 
So  he  showed  no  recognition  of  Milly's  attentions,  but  simply 
said, "  Fetch  me  my  dressing-gown,  will  you  ?" 

"  It  is  down,  dear.  I  thought  you  wouldn't  go  into  the 
study,  because  you  said  you  would  letter  and  number  the 
books  for  the  Lending  Library.  Patty  and  I  have  been  cov- 
ering them,  and  they  are  all  ready  in  the  sitting-room." 

*'  Oh,  I  can't  do  those  this  morning,"  said  Mr.  Barton,  as 
he  took  off  his  boots  and  put  his  feet  into  the  slippers  Milly 
had  brought  him ;  "  you  must  put  them  away  into  the  par- 
lor." 

The  sitting-room  was  also  the  day  nursery  and  schoolroom ; 
and  while  Mamma's  back  was  turned,  Dickey,  the  second  boy, 
had  insisted  on  superseding  Chubby  in  the  guidance  of  a  head- 
less horse,  of  the  red-wafered  species,  which  she  was  drawing 
round  the  room,  so  that  when  Papa  opened  the  door  Chubby 
was  giving  tongue  energetically. 

"  Milly,  some  of  these  children  must  go  away.  I  want  to 
be  quiet." 

"  Yes,  dear.  Hush,  Chubby ;  go  with  Patty,  and  see  what 
Nanny  is  getting  for  our  dinner.  Now,  Fred  and  Sophy  and 
Dickey,  help  me  to  carry  these  books  into  the  parlor.  There 
are  three  for  Dickey.  Carry  them  steadily." 

Papa  meanwhile  settled  himself  in  his  easy-chair,  and  took 
up  a  work  on  Episcopacy,  which  he  had  from  the  Clerical 
Book  Society  ;  thinking  he  would  finish  it,  and  return  it  this 
afternoon,  as  he  was  going  to  the  Clerical  Meeting  at  Milby 
Vicarage,  where  the  Book  Society  had  its  headquarters. 

The  Clerical  Meetings  and  Book  Society,  which  had  been 


30  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

founded  some  eight  or  ten  months,  had  had  a  noticeable  effect 
on  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton.  When  he  first  came  to  Shepper- 
ton  he  was  simply  an  evangelical  clergyman,  whose  Christian 
experiences  had  commenced  under  the  teaching  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Johns,  of  Gun  Street  Chapel,  and  had  been  consolidated 
at  Cambridge  under  the  influence  of  Mr.  Simeon.  John  New- 
ton and  Thomas  Scott  were  his  doctrinal  ideals ;  he  would 
have  taken  in  the  "  Christian  Observer  "  and  the  "  Record," 
if  he  could  have  afforded  it ;  his  anecdotes  were  chiefly  of  the 
pious-jocose  kind,  current  in  Dissenting  circles ;  and  he  thought 
an  Episcopalian  Establishment  unobjectionable. 

But  by  this  time  the  effect  of  the  Tractarian  agitation  was 
beginning  to  be  felt  in  backward  provincial  regions,  and  the 
Tractarian  satire  on  the  Low-Church  party  was  beginning  to 
tell  even  on  those  who  disavowed  or  resisted  Tractarian  doc- 
trines. The  vibration  of  an  intellectual  movement  was  felt 
from  the  golden  head  to  the  miry  toes  of  the  Establishment ; 
and  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  in  the  district  round  Milby,  the 
market-town  close  to  Shepperton,  the  clergy  had  agreed  to 
have  a  clerical  meeting  every  month,  wherein  they  would  ex- 
ercise their  intellects  by  discussing  theological  and  ecclesiasti- 
cal questions,  and  cement  their  brotherly  love  by  discussing  a 
good  dinner.  A  Book  Society  naturally  suggested  itself  as 
an  adjunct  of  this  agreeable  plan ;  and  thus,  you  perceive, 
there  was  provision  made  for  ample  friction  of  the  clerical 
mind. 

Now,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  was  one  of  those  men  who 
have  a  decided  will  and  opinion  of  their  own  ;  he  held  him- 
self bolt  upright,  and  had  no  self-distrust.  He  would  march 
very  determinedly  along  the  road  he  thought  best ;  but  then 
it  was  wonderfully  easy  to  convince  him  which  was  the  best 
road.  And  so  a  very  little  unwonted  reading  and  unwonted 
discussion  made  him  see  that  an  Episcopalian  Establishment 
was  much  more  than  unobjectionable,  and  on  many  other 
points  he  began  to  feel  that  he  held  opinions  a  little  too  far- 
sighted  and  profound  to  be  crudely  and  suddenly  communi- 
cated to  ordinary  minds.  He  was  like  an  onion  that  has  been 
rubbed  with  spices ;  the  strong  original  odor  was  blended  with 
something  new  and  foreign.  The  Low-Church  onion  still  of- 
fended refined  High-Church  nostrils,  and  the  new  spice  was 
unwelcome  to  the  palate  of  the  genuine  onion-eater. 

We  will  not  accompany  him  to  the  Clerical  Meeting  to- 
day, because  we  shall  probably  want  to  go  thither  some  day 
when  he  will  be  absent.  And  just  now  I  am  bent  on  intro- 
ducing you  to  Mr.  Bridmain  and  the  Countess  Czerlaski,  with 
whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton  are  invited  to  dine  to-morrow. 


AMOS   BARTON.  31 


CHAPTER  HI. 

OUTSIDE,  the  moon  is  shedding  its  cold  light  on  the  cold 
snow,  and  the  white-bearded  fir-trees  round  Camp  Villa  are 
casting  a  blue  shadow  across  the  white  ground,  while  the 
Rev.  Amos  Barton  and  his  wife  are  audibly  crushing  the 
crisp  snow  beneath  their  feet,  as,  about  seven  o'clock  on  Fri- 
day evening,  they  approach  the  door  of  the  above-named  de- 
sirable country  residence,  containing  dining,  breakfast,  and 
drawing  rooms,  etc.,  situated  only  half  a  mile  from  the  mar- 
ket-town of  Milby. 

Inside,  there  is  a  bright  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  casting  a 
pleasant  but  uncertain  light  on  the  delicate  silk  dress  of  a 
lady  who  is  reclining  behind  a  screen  in  the  comer  of  the 
sofa,  and  allowing  you  to  discern  that  the  hair  of  the  gentle- 
man who  is  seated  in  the  arm-chair  opposite,  with  a  newspa- 
per over  his  knees,  is  becoming  decidedly  gray.  A  little 
"  King  Charles,"  with  a  crimson  ribbon  round  his  neck,  who 
has  been  lying  curled  up  in  the  very  middle  of  the  hearth- 
rug, has  just  discovered  that  that  zone  is  too  hot  for  him,  and 
is  jumping  on  the  sofa,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  accom- 
modating his  person  on  the  silk  gown.  On  the  table  there 
are  two  wax-candles,  which  will  be  lighted  as  soon  as  the  ex- 
pected knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 

The  knock  is  heard,  the  candles  are  lighted,  and  presently 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton  are  ushered  in — Mr.  Barton  erect  and 
clerical,  in  a  faultless  tie  and  shining  cranium ;  Mrs.  Barton 
graceful  in  a  newly-turned  black  silk. 

"Now  this  is  charming  of  you,"  said  the  Countess  Czer 
laski,  advancing,  to  meet  them,  and  embracing  Milly  with 
careful  elegance.  "  I  am  really  ashamed  of  my  selfishness  in 
asking  my  friends  to  come  and  see  me  in  this  frightful  weath- 
er." Then,  giving  her  hand  to  Amos,  "  And  you,  Mr.  Barton, 
whose  time  is  so  precious  !  But  I  am  doing  a  good  deed  in 
drawing  you  away  from  your  labors.  I  have  a  plot  to  pre- 
vent you  from  martyrizing  yourself." 

While  this  greeting  was  going  forward,  Mr.  Bridmain  and 
Jet  the  spaniel  looked  on  with  the  air  of  actors  who  had  no 
idea  of  by-play.  Mr.  Bridmain,  a  stiff  and  rather  thick-set 
man,  gave  his  welcome  with  a  labored  cordiality.  It  was  as- 
tonishing how  very  little  he  resembled  his  beautiful  sister. 

For  the  Countess  Czerlaski  was  undeniably  beautiful.     As 


82  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

she  seated  herself  by  Mrs.  Barton  on  the  sofa,  Milly's  eyes,  in- 
deed, rested — must  it  be  confessed  ? — chiefly  on  the  detail? 
of  the  tasteful  dress,  the  rich  silk  of  a  pinkish  lilac  hue  (the 
Countess  always  wore  delicate  colors  in  an  evening),  the  black 
lace  pelerine,  and  the  black  lace  veil  falling  at  the  back  of 
the  small,  closely-braided  head.  For  Milly  had  one  weakness 
— don't  love  her  any  the  less  for  it,  it  was  a  pretty  woman's 
weakness — she  was  fond  of  dress ;  and  often,  when  she  was 
making  up  her  own  economical  millinery,  she  had  romantic 
visions  how  nice  it  would  be  to  put  on  really  handsome 
stylish  things — to  have  very  stiff  balloon  sleeves,  for  example, 
without  which  a  woman's  dress  was  naught  in  those  days. 
You  and  I,  too,  reader,  have  our  weakness,  have  we  not  ? 
which  makes  us  think  foolish  things  now  and  then.  Perhaps 
it  may  lie  in  an  excessive  admiration  for  small  hands  and 
feet,  a  tall,  lithe  figure,  large,  dark  eyes,  and  dark  silken 
braided  hair,  All  these  the  Countess  possessed,  and  she  had, 
moreover,  a  delicately-formed  nose,  the  least  bit  curved,  and 
a  clear  brunette  complexion.  Her  mouth,  it  must  be  admit- 
ted, receded  too  much  from  her  nose  and  chin,  and  to  a  pro- 
phetic eye  threatened  "nut-crackers  "  in  advanced  age.  But 
by  the  light  of  fire  and  wax  candles  that  age  seemed  very  fai 
off  indeed,  and  you  would  have  said  that  the  Countess  was 
not  more  than  thirty. 

Look  at  the  two  women  on  the  sofa  together !  The  large, 
fair,  mild-eyed  Milly  is  timid  even  in  friendship ;  it  is  no* 
easy  to  her  to  speak  of  the  affection  of  which  her  heart  is  fuK 
The  lithe,  dark,  thin-lipped  Countess  is  racking  her  small 
brain  for  caressing  words  and  charming  exaggerations. 

"And  how  are  all  the  cherubs  at  home?"  said  the  Coun- 
tess, stooping  to  pick  up  Jet,  and  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer. "  I  have  been  kept  in-doors  by  a  cold  ever  since  San- 
day,  or  I  should  not  have  rested  without  seeing  you.  What 
have  you  done  with  those  wretched  singers,  Mr.  Barton  ?" 

"  Oh,  we  have  got  a  new  choir  together,  which  will  go  on 
very  well  with  a  little  practice.  I  was  quite  determined  that 
the  old  set  of  singers  should  be  dismissed.  I  had  given  or- 
ders that  they  should  not  sing  the  wedding  psalm,  as  they 
call  it,  again,  to  make  a  new-married  couple  look  ridiculous, 
and  they  sang  it  in  defiance  of  me.  I  could  put  them  iiito 
the  Ecclesiastical  Court,  if  I  chose  for  to  do  so,  for  lifting  up 
their  voices  in  church  in  opposition  to  the  clergyman." 

"  And  a  most  wholesome  discipline  that  would  be,"  said 
the  Countess  ;  "  indeed,  you  are  too  patient  and  forbearing, 
Mr.  Barton.  For  my  part  I  lose  my  temper  when  I  see  how  far 
you  are  from  being  appreciated  in  that  miserable  Shepperton." 


AMOS   BARTON.  33 

If,  as  is  probable,  Mr.  Barton  felt  at  a  loss  what  to  say  in 
reply  to  the  insinuated  compliment,  it  was  a  relief  to  him 
that  dinner  was  announced  just  then,  and  that  he  had  to  of- 
fer his  arm  to  the  Countess. 

As  Mr.  Bridmain  was  leading  Mrs.  Barton  to  the  dining* 
room,  he  observed,  "  The  weather  is  very  severe." 

"  Very,  indeed,"  said  Milly. 

Mr.  Bridmain  studied  conversation  as  an  art.  To  Jadies 
he  spoke  of  the  weather,  and  was  accustomed  to  consider  it 
under  three  points  of  view:  as  a  question  of  climate  in  gen- 
eral, comparing  England  with  other  countries  in  this  respect ; 
as  a  personal  question,  inquiring  how  it  affected  his  lady  in- 
terlocutor in  particular;  and  as  a  question  of  probabilities, 
discussing  whether  there  would  be  a  change  or  a  continuance 
of  the  present  atmospheric  conditions.  To  gentlemen  he 
talked  politics,  and  he  read  two  daily  papers  expressly  to 
qualify  himself  for  this  function.  Mr.  Barton  thought  him  a 
man  of  considerable  political  information,  but  not  of  lively 
parts. 

"And  so  you  are  always  to  hold  your  Clerical  Meetings  at 
Mr.  Ely's?"  said  the  Countess,  between  her  spoonfuls  of 
soup.  (The  soup  was  a  little  over-spiced.  Mrs.  Short  of 
Camp  Villa,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  letting  her  best  apart- 
ments, gave  only  moderate  wages  to  her  cook.) 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Barton ;  "  Milby  is  a  central  place,  and 
there  are  many  conveniences  in  having  only  one  point  of 
meeting." 

"  Well,"  continued  the  Countess,  "  every  one  seems  to 
agree  in  giving  the  precedence  to  Mr.  Ely.  For  my  part,  I 
can  not  admire  him.  His  preaching  is  too  cold  for  me.  It 
has  no  fervor— no  heart.  I  often  say  to  my  brother,  it  is  a 
great  comfort  to  me  that  Shepperton  Church  is  not  too  far 
off  for  us  to  go  to ;  don't  I,  Edmund  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Bridmain  ;  "  they  show  us  into  such 
a  bad  pew  at  Milby — just  where  there  is  a  draught  from  that 
door.  I  caught  a  stiff  neck  the  first  time  I  went  there." 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  cold  in  the  pulpit  that  affects  me,  not  the 
cold  in  the  pew.  I  was  writing  to  my  friend  Lady  Porter 
this  morning,  and  telling  her  all  about  my  feelings.  She  and 
I  think  alike  on  such  matters.  She  is  most  anxious  that 
when  Sir  William  has  an  opportunity  of  giving  away  the 
living  at  their  place,  Dippley,  they  should  have  a  thoroughly 
zealous,  clever  man  there.  I  have  been  describing  a  certain 
friend  of  mine  to  her,  who,  I  think,  would  be  just  to  her  mind. 
And  there  is  such  a  pretty  rectory,  Milly  ;  shouldn't  I  like  to 

pee  you  the  mistress  of  it  ?" 

2* 


34  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Milly  smiled  and  blushed  slightly.  The  Rev.  Amos  blush- 
ed very  red,  and  gave  a  little  embarrassed  laugh — he  could 
rarely  keep  his  muscles  within  the  limits  of  a  smile. 

At  this  moment  John,  the  man-servant,  approached  Mrs. 
Barton  with  a  gravy-tureen,  and  also  with  a  slight  odor  of 
the  stable,  which  usually  adhered  to  him  throughout  his  in- 
door functions.  John  was  rather  nervous  ;  and  the  Countess 
happening  to  speak  to  him  at  this  inopportune  moment,  the 
tureen  slipped  and  emptied  itself  on  Mrs.  Barton's  newly 
turned  black  silk. 

"  Oh,  horror  !  Tell  Alice  to  come  directly  and  rub  Mrs. 
Barton's  dress,"  said  the  countess  to  the  trembling  John, 
carefully  abstaining  from  approaching  the  gravy-sprinkled 
spot  on  the  floor  with  her  own  lilac  silk.  But  Mr.  Bridmain, 
who  had  a  strictly  private  interest  in  silks,  good-naturedly 
jumped  up  and  applied  his  napkin  at  once  to  Mrs.  Barton's 
gown. 

Milly  felt  a  little  inward  anguish,  but  no  ill-temper,  and 
tried  to  make  light  of  the  matter  for  the  sake  of  John  as  well 
as  others.  The  Countess  felt  inwardly  thankful  that  her  own 
delicate  silk  had  escaped,  but  threw  out  lavish  interjections 
of  distress  and  indignation. 

"Dear  saint  that  you  are,"  she  said,  when  Milly  laughed, 
and  suggested  that,  as  her  silk  was  not  very  glossy  to  begin 
with,  the  dim  patch  would  not  be  much  seen  ;  "  you  don't 
mind  about  these  things,  I  know.  Just  the  same  sort  of 
tiling  happened  to  me  at  the  Princess  Wengstein's  one  day, 
on  a  pink  satin.  I  was  in  an  agony.  But  you  are  so  indifferent 
<o  dress;  and  well  you  may  be.  It  is  you  who  make  dress 
pretty,  and  not  dress  that  makes  yon  pretty." 

Alice,  the  buxom  lady's-maid,  wearing  a  much  better  dress 
than  Mrs.  Barton's,  now  appeared  to  take  Mr.  Bridmain's  place 
in  retrieving  the  mischief,  and  after  a  great  amount  of  sup- 
plementary rubbing,  composure  was  restored,  and  the  busi- 
ness of  dining  was  continued. 

When  John  was  recounting  his  accident  to  the  cook  in  the 
kitchen,  he  observed,  "  Mrs.  Barton's  a  hamablc  woman ;  I'd 
a  deal  sooner  ha'  throwed  the  gravy  o'er  the  Countess's  fine 
gownd.  But  laws !  what  tantrums  she'd  ha'  been  in  arter 
the  visitors  was  gone." 

"You'd  a  deal  sooner  not  ha'  throwed  it  down  at  all,  jT 
should  think,"  responded  the  unsympathetic  cook,  to  whom 
John  did  not  make  love.  "  Who  d'you  think's  to  make  gravy 
anuff,  if  you're  to  baste  people's  gownds  wi'  it  ?" 

"  Well,"  suggested  John,  humbly, "  you  should  wet  the  bot- 
tom of  the  duree  a  bit,  to  hold  it  from  slippin'." 


AMOS  BARTOH.  35 

"  Wet  your  granny  !"  retumed  the  cook ;  a  retort  which 
she  probably  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  reductio  ad  absurdum, 
and  which  in  fact  reduced  John  to  silence. 

Later  on  in  the  evening,  while  John  was  removing  the  tea- 
things  from  the  drawing-room,  and  brushing  the  crumbs  from 
the  table-cloth  with  an  accompanying  hiss,  such  as  he  was  wont 
to  encourage  himself  with  in  rubbing  down  Mr.  Bridmain's 
horse,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  drew  from  his  pocket  a  thin, 
green-covered  pamphlet,  and,  presenting  it  to  the  Countess, 
said, 

"  You  were  pleased,  I  think,  with  my  sermon  on  Christmas 
Day.  It  has  been  printed  in '  The  Pulpit,'  and  I  thought  you 
might  like  a  copy." 

"  That  indeed  I  shall.  I  shall  quite  value  the  opportunity 
of  reading  that  sermon.  There  was*  such  depth  in  it ! — such 
argument!  It  was  not  a  sermon  to  be  heard  only  once. 
I  am  delighted  that  it  should  become  generally  known,  as  it 
will  be,  now  it  is  printed  in  '  The  Pulpit.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Milly,  innocently,  "  I  was  so  pleased  with  the 
editor's  letter."  And  she  drew  out  her  little  pocket-book, 
where  she  carefully  treasured  the  editorial  autograph,  while 
Mr.  Barton  laughed  and  blushed,  and  said,  "  Nonsense,  Mil- 
ly !" 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  giving  the  letter  to  the  Countess, "  I 
am  yery  proud  of  the  praise  my  husband  gets." 

The  sermon  in  question,  by-the-by,  was  an  extremely  argu- 
mentative one  on  the  Incarnation  ;  which,  as  it  was  preached 
to  a  congregation  not  one  of  whom  had  any  doubt  of  that 
doctrine,  and  to  whom  the  Socinians  therein  confuted  were 
as  unknown  as  the  Arimaspians,  was  exceedingly  well  adapt- 
ed to  trouble  and  confuse  the  Sheppertonian  mind. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Countess,  returning  the  editor's  letter, "  he 
may  well  say  he  will  be  glad  of  other  sermons  from  the  same 
source."  But  I  would  rather  you  should  publish  your  sermons 
in  an  independent  volume,  Mr.  Barton ;  it  would  be  so  desir- 
able to  have  them  in  that  shape.  For  instance,  I  could  sen^ 
a  copy  to  the  Dean  of  Radborough.  And  there  is  Lord  Blar- 
ney, whom  I  knew  before  he  was  chancellor.  I  was  a  special 
favorite  of  his,  and  you  can't  think  what  sweet  things  he  used 
to  say  to  me.  I  shall  not  resist  the  temptation  to  write  to 
him  one  of  these  days  sansfapon,  and  tell  him  how  he  ought 
to  dispose  of  the  next  vacant  living  in  his  gift." 

Whether  Jet  the  spaniel,  being  a  much  more  knowing  dog 
than  was  suspected,  wished  to  express  his  disapproval  of  the 
Countess's  last  speech,  as  not  accordant  with  his  ideas  of  wis- 
dom and  veracity,!  can  not  say ;  but  at  this  moment  he  jump- 


36  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

ed  off  her  lap,  and,  turning  his  back  upon  her,  placed  one  paw 
on  the  fender,  and  held  the  other  up  to  warm,  as  if  affecting 
to  abstract  himself  from  the  current  of  conversation. 

But  now  Mr.  Bridmain  brought  out  the  chess-board,  and 
Mr.  Barton  accepted  his  challenge  to  play  a  game,  with  im- 
mense satisfaction.  The  Rev.  Amos  was  very  fond  of  chess, 
as  most  people  are  who  can  continue  through  many  years  to 
create  interesting  vicissitudes  in  the  game,  by  taking  long-med- 
itated moves  with  their  knights,  and  subsequently  discover- 
ing that  they  have  thereby  exposed  their  queen. 

Chess  is  a  silent  game  ;  and  the  Countess's  chat  with  Mil- 
ly  is  in  quite  an  under-tone — probably  relating  to  women's 
matters  that  it  would  be  impertinent  for  us  to  listen  to ;  so 
we  will  leave  Camp  Villa  and  proceed  to  Milby  Vicarage, 
where  Mr.  Farquhar  has  sat  out  two  other  guests  with  whom 
he  has  been  dining  at  Mr.  Ely's  and  is  now  rather  wearying 
that  reverend  gentleman  by  his  protracted  small-talk. 

Mr.  Ely  was  a  tall,  dark-haired,  distinguished-looking  man 
of  three-and-thirty.  By  the  laity  of  Milby  and  its  neighbor- 
hood he  was  regarded  as  a  man  of  quite  remarkable  powers 
and  learning,  who  must  make  a  considerable  sensation  in  Lon- 
don pulpits  and  drawing-rooms  on  his  occasional  visits  to  the 
metropolis ;  and  by  his  brother  clergy  he  was  regarded  as  a 
discreet  and  agreeable  fellow.  Mr.  Ely  nevergot  into  a  warm 
discussion  ;  he  suggested  what  might  be  thought,  but  rarely 
said  what  he  thought  himself;  he  never  let  either  men  or 
women  see  that  he  was  laughing  at  them,  and  he  never  gave 
any  one  an  opportunity  of  laughing  at  him.  In  one  thing 
only  he  was  injudicious.  He  parted  his  dark  wavy  hair  down 
the  middle ;  and  as  his  head  was  rather  flat  than  otherwise, 
that  style  of  coiffure  was  not  advantageous  to  him. 

Mr.  Farquhar,  though  not  a  parishioner  of  Mr.  Ely's,  was  one 
of  his  warmest  admirers,  and  thought  he  would  make  an  un- 
exceptionable son-in-law,  in  spite  of  his  being  of  no  particular 
"family."  Mr.  Farquhar  was  susceptible  on  the  point  of 
"  blood  " — his  own  circulating  fluid,  which  animated  a  short 
and  somewhat  flabby  person,  being,  he  considered,  of  very 
superior  quality. 

"  By-the-by,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  pomposity  counter- 
acted by  a  lisp, "  what  an  ath  Barton  makth  of  himthelf,  about 
that  Bridmain  and  the  Counteth,  ath  she  callth  herthelf.  Aft- 
er you  were  gone  the  other  evening,  Mithith  Farquhar  wath 
telling  him  the  general  opinion  about  them  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  he  got  quite  red  and  angry.  Bleth  your  thoul,  he 
believth  the  whole  thtory  about  her  Polish  huthband  and  hith 
wonderful  ethcapeth  j  and  ath  foi  her — why,  he  thinkth  her 


AMOS    BARTON.  37 

perfection,  a  woman  of  motht  refined  feelingth,  and  no  end  of 
thtuff." 

Mr.  Ely  smiled.  "  Some  people  would  say  our  friend  Bar- 
ton was  not  the  best  judge  of  refinement.  Perhaps  the  lady 
flatters  him  a  little,  and  we  men  are  susceptible.  She  goes 
to  Shepperton  Church  every  Sunday — drawn  there,  let  us 
suppose,  by  Mr.  Barton's  eloquence." 

"  Pthaw,"  said  Mr.  Farquhar :  "  now,  to  my  mind,  you  have 
only  to  look  at  that  woman  to  thee  what  she  ith — throwing 
her  ey th  about  when  she  comth  into  church,  and  drething  in 
a  way  to  attract  attention.  I  should  thay,  she'th  tired  of  her 
brother  Bridmain,  and  looking  out  for  another  brother  with  a 
thtronger  family  likeneth.  Mithith  Farquhar  ith  very  fond 
of  Mithith  Barton,  and  ith  quite  dithtrethed  that  she  should 
athothiate  with  thuch  a  woman,  tho  she  attacked  him  on 
the  thubject  purpothly.  But  I  tell  her  it'th  of  no  uthe, 
with  a  pig-headed  fellow  like  him.  Barton'th  well-meaning 
enough,  b\it  tho  contheited.  I've  left  off  giving  him  my  ad- 
vithe?' 

Mr.  Ely  smiled  inwardly,  and  said  to  himself, "  What  a 
punishment !"  But  to  Mr.  Farquhar  he  said,  "  Barton  might 
be  more  judicious,  it  must  be  confessed."  He  was  getting 
tired,  and  did  not  want  to  develop  the  subject. 

"  Why,  nobody  vithit-th  them  but  the  Bartonth,"  contin- 
ued Mr.  Farquhar, "  and  why  should  thuch  people  come  here, 
unleth  they  had  particular  reathonth  for  preferring  a  neigh- 
borhood where  they  are  not  known  ?  Pooh  !  it  lookth  bad 
on  the  very  fathe  of  it.  You  called  on  them,  now  ;  how  did 
you  find  them  ?" 

"Oh  ! — Mr.  Bridmain  strikes  me  as  a  common  sort  of  man 
who  is  making  an  effort  to  seem  wise  and  well  bred.  He 
conies  down  on  one  tremendously  with  political  information, 
and  seems  knowing  about  the  King  of  the  French.  The  Coun- 
tess is  certainly  a  handsome  woman,  but  she  puts  on  the  grand 
air  a  little  too  powerfully.  Woodcock  was  immensely  taken 
with  her,  and  insisted  on  his  wife's  calling  on  her  and  asking 
her  to  dinner ;  but  I  think  Mrs.  Woodcock  turned  restive  af- 
ter the  first  visit,  and  wouldn't  invite  her  again." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  Woodcock  hath  alwayth  a  thoft  place  in  hith 
heart  for  a  pretty  fathe.  It'th  odd  how  he  came  to  marry 
that  plain  woman,  and  no  fortune  either." 

"  Mysteries  of  the  tender  passion,"  said  Mr.  Ely.  "  I  am 
not  initiated  yet,  you  know." 

Here  Mr.  Farquhar's  carriage  was  announced,  and  as  we 
have  not  found  his  conversation  particularly  brilliant  under 
the  stimulus  of  Mr.  Ely's  exceptional  presence,  we  will  not  ac- 


88  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

company  him  home  to  the  less  exciting  atmosphere  of  domes- 
tic life. 

Mr.  Ely  threw  himself  with  a  sense  of  relief  into  his  easiest 
chair,  set  his  feet  on  the  hobs,  and  in  this  attitude  of  bachelor 
enjoyment  began  to  read  Bishop  Jebb's  Memoirs. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I  AM  by  no  means  sure  that  if  the  good  people  of  Milby 
had  known  the  truth  about  the  Countess  Czerlaski,  they 
would  not  have  been  considerably  disappointed  to  find  that 
it  Avas  very  far  from  being  as  bad  as  they  imagined.  Nice 
distinctions  are  troublesome.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  say  that 
a  thing  is  black,  than  to  discriminate  the  particular  shade  of 
brown,  blue,  or  green,  to  which  it  really  belongs.  It  is  so 
much  easier  to  make  up  your  mind  that  your  neighbor  is  good 
for  nothing,  than  to  enter  into  all  the  circumstances  that 
would  oblige  you  to  modify  that  opinion. 

Besides,  think  of  all  the  virtuous  declamation,  all  the  pen- 
etrating observations,  which  had  been  built  up  entirely  on 
the  fundamental  position  that  the  Countess  was  a  very  ob- 
jectionable person  indeed,  and  which  would  be  utterly  over- 
turned and  nullified  by  the  destruction  of  that  premiss.  Mrs. 
Phipps,  the  banker's  wife,  and  Mrs.  Landor,  the  attorney's 
wife,  had  invested  part  of  their  reputation  for  acuteness  in  the 
supposition  that  Mr.  Bridmain  was  not  the  Countess's  broth- 
er. Moreover,  Miss  Phipps  was  conscious  that  if  the  Count- 
ess was  not  a  disreputable  person,  she,  Miss  Phipps,  had  no 
compensating  superiority  in  virtue  to  set  against  the  other 
lady's  manifest  superiority  in  personal  charms.  Miss  Phipps's 
stumpy  figure  and  unsuccessful  attire,  instead  of  looking 
down  from  a  mount  of  virtue  with  an  aureole  round  its  head, 
would  then  be  seen  on  the  same  level  and  in  the  same  light 
as  the  Countess  Czerlaski's  Diana-like  form  and  welt-chosen 
drapery.  Miss  Phipps,  for  her  part,  didn't  like  dressing  for 
effect — she  had  always  avoided  that  style  of  appearance  which 
was  calculated  to  create  a  sensation. 

Then  what  amusing  innuendoes  of  the  Milby  gentlemen 
over  their  wine  would  have  been  entirely  frustrated  and  re- 
duced to  naught,  if  you  had  told  them  that  the  Countess 
had  really  been  guilty  of  no  misdemeanors  which  demanded 
her  exclusion  from  strictly  respectable  society;  that  her 
husband  had  been  the  veritable  Count  Czerlaski,  who  had 


AMOS   BARTOK.  39 

had  wonderful  escapes,  as  she  said,  and  who,  as  she  did  not 
say,  but  as  was  said  in  certain  circulars  once  folded  by  her 
fair  hands,  had  subsequently  given  dancing  lessons  in  the  me- 
tropolis ;  that  Mr.  Bridmain  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  her 
half-brother,  who,  by  unimpeached  integrity  and  industry, 
had  won  a  partnership  in  a  silk-manufactory,  and  thereby  a 
moderate  fortune,  that  enabled  him  to  retire,  as  you  see,  to 
study  politics,  the  weather,  and  the  art  of  conversation  at  his 
leisure.  Mr.  Bridmain,  in  fact,  quadragenarian  bachelor  as 
he  was,  felt  extremely  well  pleased  to  receive  his  sister  in 
her  widowhood,  and  to  shine  in  the  reflected  light  of  her 
beauty  and  title.  Every  man  who  is  not  a  monster,  a  math- 
ematician, or  a  mad  philosopher,  is  the  slave  of  some  woman 
or  other.  Mr.  Bridmain  had  put  his  neck  under  the  yoke  of 
his  handsome  sister,  and  though  his  soul  was  a  very  little 
one — of  the  smallest  description  indeed — he  would  not  have 
ventured  tp  call  it  his  own.  He  might  be  slightly  recalci- 
trant now  and  then,  as  is  the  habit  of  long-eared  pachyderms, 
under  the  thong  of  the  fair  Countess's  tongue ;  but  there 
seemed  little  probability  that  he  would  ever  get  his  neck 
loose.  Still,  a  bachelor's  heart  is  an  outlying  fortress  that 
some  fair  enemy  may  any  day  take  either  by  storm  or  strata- 
gem ;  and  there  was  always  the  possibility  that  Mr.  Brid- 
main's  first  nuptials  might  occur  before  the  Countess  was 
quite  sure  of  her  second.  As  it  was,  however,  he  submitted 
to  all  his  sister's  caprices,  never  grumbled  because  her  dress 
and  her  maid  formed  a  considerable  item  beyond  her  own  lit- 
tle income  of  sixty  pounds  per  annum,  and  consented  to  lead 
with  her  a  migratory  life,  as  personages  on  the  debatable 
ground  between  aristocracy  and  commonalty,  instead  of  set- 
tling in  some  spot  where  his  five  hundred  a-year  might  have 
won  him  the  definite  dignity  of  a  parochial  magnate. 

The  Countess  had  her  views  in  choosing  a  quiet  provin- 
cial place  like  Milby.  After  three  years  of  widowhood,  she 
had  brought  her  feelings  to  contemplate  giving  a  successor 
to  her  lamented  Czerlaski,  whose  fine  whiskers,  fine  air,  and 
romantic  fortunes  had  won  her  heart  ten  years  ago,  when,  as 
pretty  Caroline  Bridmain,  in  full  bloom  of  five-and-twenty, 
she  was  governess  to  Lady  Porter's  daughters,  whom  he  ini- 
tiated into  the  mysteries  of  the  pas  cle  basque  and  the  Lan- 
cers' quadrilles.  She  had  had  seven  years  of  sufficiently  hap- 
py matrimony  with  Czerlaski,  who  had  taken  her  to  Paris  and 
Germany,  and  introduced  her  there  to  many  of  his  old  friends 
with  large  titles  and  small  fortunes.  So  that  the  fair  Caro- 
line had  had  considerable  experience  of  life,  and  had  gather- 
ed therefrom,  not,  indeed,  any  very  ripe  and  comprehensive 


40  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

wisdom,  but  much  external  polish,  and  certain  practical  con- 
clusions of  a  very  decided  kind.  One  of  these  conclusions 
was,  that  there  were  things  more  solid  in  life  than  fine  whis- 
kers and  a  title,  and  that,  in  accepting  a  second  husband, 
she  would  regard  these  items  as  quite  subordinate  to  a  car- 
riage and  a  settlement.  Now,  she  had  ascertained,  by  ten- 
tative residences,  that  the  kind  of  bite  she  was  angling 
for  was  difficult  to  be  met  with  at  watering-places,  which 
were  already  preoccupied  with  abundance  of  angling  beau- 
ties, and  were  chiefly  stocked  with  men  whose  whiskers 
might  be  dyed,  and  whose  incomes  were  still  more  proble- 
matic ;  so  she  had  determined  on  trying  a  neighborhood 
where  people  were  extremely  well  acquainted  with  each  oth- 
er's affairs,  and  where  the  women  were  mostly  ill-dressed  and 
ugly.  Mr.  Bridmain's  slow  brain  had  adopted  his  sister's 
views,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  woman  so  handsome  and 
distinguished  as  the  Countess  must  certainly  make  a  match 
that  might  lift  himself  into  the  region  of  county  celebrities, 
and  give  him  at  least  a  sort  of  cousinship  to  the  quarter-ses- 
sions. 

All  this,  which  was  the  simple  truth,  would  have  seemed  ex- 
tremely flat  to  the  gossips  of  Milby,  who  had  made  up  their 
minds  to  something  much  more  exciting.  There  was  nothing 
here  so  very  detestable.  It  is  true,  the  Countess  was  a  little 
vain,  a  little  ambitious,  a  little  selfish,  a  little  shallow  and  friv- 
olous, a  little  given  to  white  lies. — But  who  considers  such 
slight  blemishes,  such  moral  pimples  as  these,  disqualifications 
for  entering  into  the  most  respectable  society  !  Indeed,  the 
severest  ladies  in  Milby  would  have  been  perfectly  aware 
that  these  characteristics  would  have  created  no  wide  dis- 
tinction between  the  Countess  Czerlaski  and  themselves ;  and 
since  it  was  clear  there  was  a  wide  distinction — why,  it  must 
lie  in  the  possession  of  some  vices  from  which  they  were  un> 
deniably  free. 

Hence  it  came  to  pass  that  Milby  respectability  refused  to 
recognize  the  Countess  Czerlaski,  in  spite  of  her  assiduous 
church-going,  and  the  deep  disgust  she  was  known  to  have 
expressed  at  the  extreme  paucity  of  the  congregations  on  Ash- 
Wednesdays.  So  she  began  to  feel  that  she  had  miscalcu- 
lated the  advantages  of  a  neighborhood  where  people  are 
well  acquainted  with  each  other's  private  affairs.  Under 
these  circumstances,  you  will  imagine  how  welcome  was  the 
perfect  credence  and  admiration  she  met  with  from  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Barton.  She  had  been  especially  irritated  by  Mr.  Ely's 
behavior  to  her;  she  felt  sure  that  he  was  not  in  the  least 
struck  with  her  beauty,  that  he  quizzed  her  conversation, 


AMOS   BARTON.  41 

and  that  he  spoke  of  her  with  a  sneer.  A  woman  always 
knows  where  she  is  utterly  powerless,  and  shuns  a  coldly 
satirical  eye  as  she  would  shun  a  Gorgon.  And  she  was  es- 
pecially eager  for  clerical  notice  and  friendship,  not  merely 
because  that  is  quite  the  most  respectable  countenance  to  be 
obtained  in  society,  but  because  she  really  cared  about  relig- 
ious matters,  and  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  she  was  not  alto- 
gether safe  in  that  quarter.  She  had  serious  intentions  of  be- 
coming quite  pious  —  without  any  reserves  —  when  she  had 
once  got  her  carriage  and  settlement.  Let  us  do  this  one  sly 
trick,  says  Ulysses  to  Neoptolemus,  and  we  will  be  perfectly 
honest  ever  after  — 

aA?.'  £(K>  yap  rot  KTrjfia  Tr/f  viic 
Totya  •  6'maioi  6'  avOtf  i 


The  Countess  did  not  quote  Sophocles,  but  she  said  to  herself, 
"  Only  this  little  bit  of  pretense  and  vanity,  and  then  I  will 
be  quite  good,  and  make  myself  quite  safe  for  another  world. 

And  as  she  had  by  no  means  such  fine  taste  and  insight  in 
theological  teaching  as  in  costume,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton 
seemed  to  her  a  man  not  only  of  learning  —  that  is  always  un- 
derstood with  a  clergyman  —  but  of  much  power  as  a  spiritu- 
al director.  As  for  Milly,  the  Countess  really  loved  her  as 
well  as  the  preoccupied  state  of  her  affections  would  allow. 
For  .you  have  already  perceived  that  there  was  one  being  to 
whom  the  Countess  was  absorbingly  devoted,  and  to  whose 
desires  she  made  everything  else  subservient  —  namely,  Car- 
oline Czerlaski,  nee  Bridmain. 

Thus  there  was  really  not  much  affectation  in  her  sweet 
speeches  and  attentions  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton.  Still  their 
friendship  by  no  means  adequately  repi'esented  the  object  she 
had  in  view  when  she  came  to  Milby,  and  it  had  been  for 
some  time  clear  to  her  that  she  must  suggest  a  new  change 
of  residence  to  her  brother. 

The  thing  we  look  forward  to  often  comes  to  pass,  but 
never  precisely  in  the  way  we  have  imagined  to  ourselves. 
The  Countess  did  actually  leave  Camp  v  ilia  before  many 
months  were  past,  but  under  circumstances  which  had  not  at 
all  entered  into  her  contemplation. 


42  STELES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  whose  sad  fortunes  I  have  under- 
taken to  relate,  was,  you  perceive,  in  no  respect  an  ideal  or 
exceptional  character ;  and  perhaps  I  am  doing  a  bold  thing 
to  bespeak  your  sympathy  on  behalf  of  a  man  who  was  so 
very  far  from  remarkable, — a  man  whose  virtues  were  not 
heroic,  and  who  had  no  undetected  crime  within  his  breast; 
who  had  not  the  slightest  mystery  hanging  about  him,  but 
was  palpably  and  unmistakably  commonplace  ;  who  was  not 
even  in  love,  but  had  had  that  complaint  favorably  many 
years  ago.  "  An  utterly  uninteresting  character !"  I  think 
I  hear  a  lady  reader  exclaim — Mrs.  Farthingale,  for  example, 
who  prefers  the  ideal  in  fiction ;  to  whom  tragedy  means  er- 
mine tippets,  adultery,  and  murder ;  and  comedy,  the  adven- 
tures of  some  personage  who  is  quite  a  "  character." 

But,  my  dear  madam,  it  is  so  very  large  a  majority  of  your 
fellow-countrymen  that  are  of  this  insignificant  stamp.  At 
least  eighty  out  of  a  hundred  of  your  adult  male  fellow-Brit- 
ons returned  in  the  last  census  are  neither  extraordinarily  silly, 
nor  extraordinarily  wicked,  nor  extraordinarily  wise ;  their 
eyes  are  neither  deep  and  liquid  with  sentiment,  nor  spar- 
kling with  suppressed  witticisms;  they  have  probably  had 
no  hairbreadth  escapes  or  thrilling  adventures  ;  their  brains 
are  certainly  not  pregnant  with  genius,  and  their  passions 
have  not  manifested  themselves  at  all  after  the  fashion  of  a 
volcano.  They  are  simply  men  of  complexions  more  or  less 
muddy,  whose  conversation  is  more  or  less  bald  and  disjoint- 
ed. Yet  these  commonplace  people — many  of  them — bear  a 
conscience,  and  have  felt  the  sublime  prompting  to  do  the 
painful  right;  they  have  their  unspoken  sorrows  and  their 
sacred  joys;  their  hearts  have  perhaps  gone  out  towards 
their  first-born,  and  they  have  mourned  over  the  irreclaima- 
ble dead.  Nay,  is  there  not  a  pathos  in  their  very  insignifi- 
cance— in  our  comparison  of  their  dim  and  narrow  existence 
with  the  glorious  possibilities  of  that  human  nature  which 
they  share. 

Depend  upon  it,  you  would  gain  unspeakably  if  you  would 
learn  with  me  to  see  some  of  the  poetry  and  the  pathos,  the 
tragedy  and  the  comedy,  lying  in  the  experience  of  a  human 
soul  that  looks  out  through  dull  gray  eyes,  and  that  speaks 
in  a  voice  of  quite  ordinary  tones.  In  that  case,  I  should  have 


AMOS    BARTON.  43 

no  fear  of  your  not  caring  to  know  what  further  befell  the 
Rev.  Amos  Barton,  or  of  your  thinking  the  homely  details  I 
have  to  tell  at  all  beneath  your  attention.  As  it  is,  you  can, 
if  you  please,  decline  to  pursue  my  story  further ;  and  you 
will  easily  find  reading  more  to  your  taste,  since  I  learn  from 
the  newspapers  that  many  remarkable  novels,  full  of  striking 
situations,  thrilling  incidents,  and  eloquent  writing,  have  ap- 
peared only  within  the  last  season. 

Meanwhile,  readers  who  have  begun  to  feel  an  interest  in 
the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  and  his  wife,  will  be  glad  to  learn  that 
Mr.  Oldinport  lent  the  twenty  pounds.  But  twenty  pounds 
are  soon  exhausted  when  twelve  are  due  as  back  payment  to 
the  butcher,  and  when  the  possession  of  eight  extra  sover- 
eigns in  February  weather  is  an  irresistible  temptation  to 
order  a  new  greatcoat.  And  though  Mr.  Bridmain  so  far  de- 
parted from  the  necessary  economy  entailed  on  him  by  the 
Countess's  elegant  toilette  and  expensive  maid,  as  to  choose 
a  handsom'e  black  silk,  stiff,  as  his  experienced  eye  discerned, 
with  the  genuine  strength  of  its  own  texture,  and  not  with 
the  factitious  strength  of  gum,  and  present  it  to  Mrs.  Barton, 
in  retrieval  of  the  accident  that  had  occurred  at  his  table, 
yet,  dear  me  —  as  every  husband  has  heard  —  what  is  the 
present  of  a  gown  when  you  are  deficiently  furnished  with 
the  et-ceteras  of  apparel,  and  when,  moreover,  there  are  six 
children  whose  wear  and  tear  of  clothes  is  something  incred- 
ible to  the  non-maternal  mind  ? 

Indeed,  the  equation  of  income  and  expenditure  was  offer- 
ing new  and  constantly  accumulating  difficulties  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Barton  ;  for  shortly  after  the  birth  of  little  Walter,  Mil- 
ly's  aunt,  who  had  lived  with  her  ever  since  her  marriage, 
had  withdrawn  herself,  her  furniture,  and  her  yearly  income, 
to  the  household  of  another  niece ;  prompted  to  that  step, 
very  probably,  by  a  slight  "  tiff"  with  the  Rev.  Amos, which 
occurred  while  Milly  was  up  stairs,  and  proved  one  too  many 
for  the  elderly  lady's  patience  and  magnanimity.  Mr.  Bar- 
ton's temper  was  a  little  warm,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  elder- 
ly maiden  ladies  are  known  to  be  susceptible ;  so  we  will  not 
suppose  that  all  the  blame  lay  on  his  side — the  less  so,  as  he 
had  every  motive  for  humoring  an  inmate  whose  presence 
kept  the  wolf  from  the  door.  It  was  now  nearly  a  year  since 
Miss  Jackson's  departure,  and,  to  a  fine  ear,  the  howl  of  the 
wolf  was  audibly  approaching. 

It  was  a  sad  thing,  too,  that  when  the  last  snow  had  melt- 
ed, when  the  purple  and  yellow  crocuses  were  coming  up  in 
the  garden,  and  the  old  church  was  already  half  pulled  down, 
Milly  had  an  illness  which  made  her  lips  look  pale,  and  ren- 


44  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

dered  it  absolutely  necessary  that  she  should  not  exert  her- 
self for  some  time.  Mr.  Brand,  the  Shepperton  doctor  so  ob- 
noxious to  Mr.  Pilgrim,  ordered  her  to  drink  port-wine,  and  it 
was  quite  necessary  to  have  a  charwoman  very  often  to  as- 
sist Nanny  in  all  the  extra  work  that  fell  upon  her. 

Mrs.  Hackit,  who  hardly  ever  paid  a  visit  to  any  one  but 
her  oldest  and  nearest  neighbor,  Mrs.  Patten,  now  took  the 
unusual  step  of  calling  at  the  vicarage  one  morning  ;  and  the 
tears  came  into  her  unsentimental  eyes  as  she  saw  Milly  seat- 
ed pale  and  feeble  in  the  parlor,  unable  to  persevere  in  sew- 
ing the  pinafore  that  lay  on  the  table  beside  her.  Little 
Dickey,  a  boisterous  boy  of  five,  with  large  pink  cheeks  and 
sturdy  legs,  was  having  his  turn  to  sit  with  Mamma,  and  was 
squatting  quiet  as  a  mouse  at  her  knee,  holding  her  soft  white 
hand  between  his  little  red,  black-nailed  fists.  He  was  a  boy 
whom  Mrs.  Hackit,  in  a  severe  mood,  had  pronounced 
"  stocky "  (a  word  that  etymologically,  in  all  probability, 
conveys  some  allusion  to  an  instrument  of  punishment  for 
the  refractory) ;  but  seeing  him  thus  subdued  into  goodness, 
she  smiled  at  him  with  her  kindest  smile,  and,  stooping  down, 
suggested  a  kiss — a  favor  which  Dickey  resolutely  declined. 

"  Now  do  you  take  nourishing  things  enough  ?"  was  one 
of  Mrs.  Hackit's  first  questions,  and  Milly  endeavored  to  make 
it  appear  that  no  woman  was  ever  so  much  in  danger  of  be- 
ing over-fed  and  led  into  self-indulgent  habits  as  herself. 
But  Mrs.  Hackit  gathered  one  fact  from  her  replies,  namely, 
that  Mr.  Brand  had  ordered  port-wine. 

While  this  conversation  was  going  forward,  Dickey  had 
been  furtively  stroking  and  kissing  the  soft  white  hand ;  so 
that  at  last,  when  a  pause  came,  his  mother  said,  smilingly, 
"  Why  are  you  kissing  my  hand,  Dickey  ?" 

"  It  id  to  yovely,"  answered  Dickey,  who,  you  observe,  was 
decidedly  backward  in  his  pronunciation. 

Mrs.  Hackit  remembered  this  little  scene  in  after  days,  and 
thought  with  peculiar  tenderness  and  pity  of  the  "  stocky  boy." 

The  next  day  there  came  a  hamper  with  Mrs.  Hackit's  re- 
spects ;  and  on  being  opened  it  was  found  to  contain  half  a 
dozen  of  port-wine  and  two  couples  of  fowls.  Mrs.  Farquhar, 
too,  was  very  kind ;  insisted  on  Mrs.  Barton's  rejecting  all 
arrow-root  but  hers,  which  was  genuine  Indian,  and  carried 
away  Sophy  and  Fred  to  stay  with  her  a  fortnight.  These 
and  other  good-natured  attentions  made  the  trouble  of  Milly  *s 
illness  more  bearable;  but  they  could  not  prevent  it  from 
swelling  expenses,  and  Mr.  Barton  began  to  have  serious 
thoughts  of  representing  his  case  to  a  certain  charity  for  the 
relief  of  needy  curates. 


AMOS   BARTON.  45 

Altogether,  as  matters  stood  in  Shepperton,  the  parishion- 
ers were  more  likely  to  have  a  strong  sense  that  the  clergy- 
man needed  their  material  aid,  than  that  they  needed  his 
spiritual  aid, — not  the  best  state  of  things  in  this  age  and 
country,  where  faith  in  men  solely  on  the  ground  of  their 
spiritual  gifts  has  considerably  diminished,  and  especially  un- 
favorable to  the  influence  of  the  Rev.  Amos,  whose  spiritual 
gills  would  not  have  had  a  very  commanding  power  even  in 
an  age  of  faith. 

But,  you  ask,  did  not  the  Countess  Czerlaski  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  her  friends  all  this  time?  To  be  sure  she  did.  She 
was  indefatigable  in  visiting  her  "  sweet  Milly,"  and  sitting 
with  her  for  hours  together.  It  may  seem  remarkable  to  you 
that  she  neither  thought  of  taking  away  any  of  the  children, 
nor  of  providing  for  any  of  Milly's  probable  wants  ;  but  ladies 
of  rank  and  of  luxurious  habits,  you  know,  can  not  be  expected 
to  surmise  the  details  of  poverty.  She  put  a  great  deal  of 
eau-de-Coldgne  on  Mrs.  Barton's  pocket-handkerchief,  re-ar- 
ranged her  pillow  and  footstool,  kissed  her  cheeks,  wrapped 
her  in  a  soft  warm  shawl  from  her  own  shoulders,  and  amused 
her  with  stones  of  the  life  she  had  seen  abroad.  When  Mr. 
Barton  joined  them  she  talked  of  Tractarianism,  of  her  deter- 
mination not  to  re-enter  the  vortex  of  fashionable  life,  and  of 
her  anxiety  to  see  him  in  a  sphere  large  enough  for  his  talents. 
Milly  thought  her  sprightliness  and  affectionate  warmth  quite 
charming,  and  was  very  fond  of  her ;  while  the  Rev.  Amos  had 
a  vague  consciousness  that  he  had  risen  into  aristocratic  life, 
and  only  associated  with  his  middle-class  parishioners  in  a 
pastoral  and  parenthetic  manner. 

However,  as  the  days  brightened,  Milly's  cheeks  and  lips 
brightened  too  ;  and  in  a  few  weeks  she  was  almost  as  active 
as  ever,  though  watchful  eyes  might  have  seen  that  activity 
was  not  easy  to  her.  Mrs.  Hackit's  eyes  were  of  that  kind, 
and  one  day,  Avhen  Mr.  and.  Mrs.  Barton  had  been  dining  with 
her  for  the  first  time  since  Milly's  illness,  she  observed  to  her 
husband — "That  poor  thing's  dreadful  weak  an'  dilicate ;  she 
won't  stan'  havin'  many  more  children." 

Mr.  Barton,  meanwhile,  had  been  indefatigable  in  his  voca- 
tion. He  had  preached  two  extemporary  sermons  every  Sun- 
day at  the  workhouse,  where  a  room  had  been  fitted  up  for 
divine  service,  pending  the  alterations  in  the  church ;  and  had 
walked  the  same  evening  to  a  cottage  at  one  or  other  extremi- 
ty of  his  parish  to  deliver  another  sermon,  still  more  extem- 
porary, in  an  atmosphere  impregnated  with  spring-flowers 
and  perspiration.  After  all  these  labors  you  will  easily  con- 
ceive that  he  was  considerablv  exhausted  by  half  past  niuo 


46  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  that  a  supper  at  a  friendly  pa- 
rishioner's with  a  glass,  or  even  two  glasses,  of  brandy-and- 
water  after  it,  was  a  welcome  re-enforcement.  Mr.  Barton 
was  not  at  all  an  ascetic ;  he  thought  the  benefits  of  fasting 
were  entirely  confined  to  the  Old  Testament  dispensation; 
he  was  fond  of  relaxing  himself  with  a  little  gossip ;  indeed, 
Miss  Bond,  and  other  ladies  of  enthusiastic  views,  sometimes 
regretted  that  Mr.  Barton  did  not  more  uninterruptedly  ex- 
hibit a  superiority  to  the  things  of  the  flesh.  Thin  ladies,  who 
take  little  exercise,  and  whose  livers  are  not  strong  enough  to 
bear  stimulants,  are  so  extremely  critical  about  one's  personal 
habits.  And,  after  all,  the  Rev.  Amos  never  came  near  the 
borders  of  a  vice.  His  very  faults  were  middling — he  was 
not  very  ungrammatical.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be  su- 
perlative in  any  thing  ;  unless,  indeed,  he  was  superlatively 
middling,  the  quintessential  extract  of  mediocrity.  If  there 
was  any  one  point  on  which  he  showed  an  inclination  to  be 
excessive,  it  was  confidence  in  his  own  shrewdness  and  abili- 
ty in  practical  matters,  so  that  he  was  very  full  of  plans  which 
were  something  like  his  moves  in  chess — admirably  well  cal- 
culated, supposing  the  state  of  the  case  were  otherwise.  For 
example,  that  notable  plan  of  introducing  anti-Dissenting 
books  into  his  Lending  Library  did  not  in  the  least  appear 
to  have  bruised  the  head  of  Dissent,  though  it  had  certainly 
made  Dissent  strongly  inclined  to  bite  the  Rev.  Amos's  heel. 
Again,  he  vexed  the  souls  of  his  churchwardens  and  influen- 
tial parishioners  by  his  fertile  suggestiveness  as  to  what  it 
would  be  well  for  them  to  do  in  the  matter  of  the  church  re- 
pairs, and  other  ecclesiastical  secularities. 

"  I  never  saw  the  like  to  parsons,"  Mr.  Hackit  said  one 
day  in  conversation  with  his  brother  churchwarden,  Mr. 
Bond ;  "  they're  al'ys  for  meddling  with  business,  an'  they 
know  no  more  about  it  than  my  black  filly." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Bond, "  they're  too  high  learnt  to  have 
much  common  sense." 

"Well,"  remarked  Mr.  Hackit,  in  a  modest  and  dubious 
tone,  as  if  throwing  out  an  hypothesis  which  might  be  con- 
sidered bold, "  I  should  say  that's  a  bad  sort  of  eddication 
as  makes  folks  unreasonable." 

So  that,  you  perceive,  Mr.  Barton's  popularity  was  in  that 
precarious  condition,  in  that  toppling  and  contingent  state, 
in  which  a  very  slight  push  from  a  malignant  destiny  would 
utterly  upset  it.  That  push  was  not  long  in  being  given,  as 
you  shall  hear. 

One  fine  May  morning,  when  Amos  was  out  on  his  paro- 
chial visits,  and  the  sunlight  was  streaming  through  the 


AMOS   BARTON.  47 

bow-window  of  the  sitting-room,  where  Milly  was  seated  at 
her  sewing,  occasionally  looking  up  to  glance  at  the  children 
playing  in  the  garden,  there  came  a  loud  rap  at  the  door, 
which  she  at  once  recognized  as  the  Countess's,  and  that 
well-dressed  lady  presently  entered  the  sitting-room,  with 
her  veil  drawn  over  her  face.  Milly  was  not  at  all  surprised 
or  sorry  to  see  her;  but  when  the  Countess  threw  up  her 
veil,  and  showed  that  her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen,  she 
was  both  surprised  and  sorry. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter,  dear  Caroline  ?" 

Caroline  threw  down  Jet,  who  gave  a  little  yelp ;  then 
she  threw  her  arms  round  Milly's  neck,  and  began  to  sob ; 
then  she  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  begged  for  a  glass  of 
water ;  then  she  threw  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl ;  and  by 
the  time  Milly's  imagination  had  exhausted  itself  in  conjur- 
ing up  calamities,  she  said, 

"Dear, how  shall  I  tell  you?  I  am  the  most  wretched 
woman.  To  be  deceived  by  a  brother  to  whom  I  have  been 
so  devoted — to  see  him  degrading  himself — giving  himself 
utterly  to  the  dogs !" 

"What  can  it  be?"  said  Milly,  who  began  to  picture 
to  herself  the  sober  Mr.  Bridmain  taking  to  brandy  and  bet- 
ting. 

"  He  is  going  to  be  married — to  marry  my  own  maid,  that 
deceitful  Alice,  to  whom  I  have  been  the  most  indulgent  mis- 
tress. Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  thing  so  disgraceful  ?  so 
mortifying  ?  so  disreputable  ?" 

"And  has  he  only  just  told  you  of  it?"  said  Milly,  who, 
having  really  heard  of  worse  conduct,  even  in  her  innocent 
life,  avoided  a  direct  answer. 

"  Told  me  of  it !  he  had  not  even  the  grace  to  do  that.  I 
went  into  the  dining-room  suddenly  and  found  him  kissing 
her — disgusting  at  his  time  of  life,  is  it  not  ? — and  when  I  re- 
proved her  for  allowing  such  liberties,  she  turned  round 
saucily,  and  said  she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  my 
brother,  and  she  saw  no  shame  in  allowing  him  to  kiss  her. 
Edmund  is  a  miserable  coward,  you  know,  and  looked  fright- 
ened ;  but  when  she  asked  him  to  say  whether  it  was  not  so, 
he  tried  to  summon  up  courage  and  say  yes.  I  left  the  room 
in  disgust,  and  this  morning  I  have  been  questioning  Edmund, 
and  find  that  he  is  bent  on  marrying  this  woman,  and  that  he 
has  been  putting  off  telling  me — because  he  was  ashamed  of 
himself,  I  suppose.  I  couldn't  possibly  stay  in  the  house 
after  this,  with  my  own  maid  turned  mistress.  And  now, 
Milly,  I  am  come  to  throw  myself  on  your  charity  for  a  week 
or  two.  Will  you  take  me  in  ?" 


48  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL' LIFE. 

"That  we  will,"  said  Milly,  "if  you  will  only  put  up  with 
our  poor  rooms  and  way  of  living.  It  will  be  delightful  to 
have  you." 

"  It  will  soothe  me  to  be  with  you  and  Mr.  Barton  a  little 
while.  I  feel  quite  unable  to  go  among  my  other  friends 
just  at  present.  What  those  two  wretched  people  will 
do  I  don't  know — leave  the  neighborhood  at  once,  I  hope. 
I  entreated  my  brother  to  do  so,  before  he  disgraced  him- 
self." 

When  Amos  came  home,  he  joined  his  cordial  welcome 
and  sympathy  to  Milly's.  By-and-by  the  Countess's  formid- 
able boxes,  which  she  had  carefully  packed  before  her  indig- 
nation drove  her  away  from  Camp  Villa,  arrived  at  the  vicar- 
age, and  were  deposited  in  the  spare  bedroom,  and  in  two 
closets,  not  spare,  which  Milly  emptied  for  their  reception. 
A  week  afterwards,  the  excellent  apartments  at  Camp  Villa, 
comprising  dining  and  drawing-rooms,  three  bedrooms  and  a 
dressing-room,  were  again  to  let,  and  Mr.  Bridmain's  sudden 
departure,  together  with  the  Countess  Czerlaski's  installation 
as  a  visitor  at  Shepperton  Vicarage,  became  a  topic  of  gen- 
eral conversation  in  the  neighborhood.  The  keen-sighted 
virtue  of  Milby  and  Shepperton  saw  in  all  this  a  confirmation 
of  its  worst  suspicions,  and  pitied  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton's 
gullibility. 

But  when  week  after  week,  and  month  after  month,  slipped 
by  without  witnessing  the  Countess's  departure — when  sum- 
mer and  harvest  had  fled,  and  still  left  her  behind  them  oc- 
cupying the  spare  bedroom  and  the  closets,  and  also  a  large 
proportion  of  Mrs.  Barton's  time  and  attention,  new  surmises 
of  a  very  evil  kind  were  added  to  the  old  rumors,  and  began 
to  take  the  form  of  settled  convictions  in  the  minds  even  of 
Mr.  Barton's  most  friendly  parishioners. 

And  now,  here  is  an  opportunity  for  an  accomplished 
writer  to  apostrophize  calumny,  to  quote  Virgil,  and  to  show 
that  he  is  acquainted  with  the  most  ingenious  things  which 
have  been  said  on  that  subject  in  polite  literature. 

But  what  is  opportunity  to  the  man  who  can't  use  it? 
An  unfecundated  egg,  which  the  waves  of  time  wash  away 
into  nonentity.  So,  as  my  memory  is  ill-furnished,  and  my 
note-book  still  worse,  I  am  unable  to  show  myself  either  eru- 
dite or  eloquent  apropos  of  the  calumny  whereof  the  Rev. 
Amos  Barton  was  the  victim.  I  can  only  ask  my  reader, — 
did  you  ever  upset  your  inkbottle,  and  watch,  in  helpless  ag- 
ony, the  rapid  spread  of  Stygian  blackness  over  your  fair 
manuscript  or  fairer  table-cover?  With  a  like  inky  swift- 
ness did  gossip  now  blacken  the  reputation  of  the  Rev.  Amcc 


AMO6   BARTON1.  49 

Barton,  causing  the  unfriendly  to  scorn  and  even  the  friend- 
ly to  stand  aloof,  at  a  time  when  difficulties  of  another  kind 
were  fast  thickening  around  him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ONE  November  morning,  at  least  six  months  after  the 
Countess  Czerlaski  had  taken  up  her  residence  at  the  vicar- 
age, Mrs.  Hackit  heard  that  her  neighbor  Mrs.  Patten  had  an 
attack  of  her  old  complaint,  vaguely  called  "  the  spasms." 
Accordingly,  about  eleven  o'clock,  she  put  on  her  velvet  bon- 
net and  cloth  cloak,  with  a  long  boa  and  muff  large  enough 
to  stow  a  prize  baby  in ;  for  Mrs.  Hackit  regulated  her  cos- 
tume by  the  calendar,  and  brought  out  her  furs  on  the  first 
of  November,  whatever  might  be  the  temperature.  She  was 
not  a  woman  weakly  to  accommodate  herself  to  shilly-shally 
proceedings.  If  the  season  didn't  know  what  it  ought  to  do, 
Mrs.  Hackit  did.  In  her  best  days,  it  was  always  sharp 
weather  at  "  Gunpowder  Plot,"  and  she  did'nt  like  new  fash- 
ions. 

And  this  morning  the  weather  was  very  rationally  in  ac- 
cordance with  her  costume,  for  as  she  made  her  way  through 
the  fields  to  Cross  Farm,  the  yellow  leaves  on  the  hedge-girt 
elms,  which  showed  bright  and  golden  against  the  low-hang- 
ing purple  clouds,  were  being  scattered  across  the  grassy  path 
by  the  coldest  of  November  winds.  "  Ah,"  Mrs.  Hackit 
thought  to  herself,  "I  daresay  we  shall  have  a  sharp  pinch 
this  winter,  and  if  we  do,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  takes  the 
old  lady  off.  They  say  a  green  Yule  makes  a  fat  church- 
yard ;  but  so  does  a  white  Yule  too,  for  that  matter.  When 
the  stool's  rotten  enough,  no  matter  who  sits  on  it." 

However,  on  her  arrival  at  Cross  Farm,  the  prospect  of 
Mrs.  Patten's  decease  was  again  thrown  into  the  dim  dis- 
tance in  her  imagination,  for  Miss  Janet  Gibbs  met  her  with 
the  news  that  Mrs.  Patten  was  much  better,  and  led  her, 
without  any  preliminary  announcement,  to  the  old  lady's 
bedroom.  Janet  had  scarcely  reached  the  end  of  her  cir- 
cumstantial narrative,  how  the  attack  came  on  and  what  were 
her  aunt's  sensations — a  narrative  to  which  Mrs.  Patten,  in 
her  neatly  -  plaited  nightcap,  seemed  to  listen  with  a  con- 
temptuous resignation  to  her  niece's  historical  inaccuracy, 
contenting  herself  with  occasionally  confounding  Janet  by  a 
shake  of  the  head — when  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  ou  the 


50  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

yard  pavement  announced  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Pilgrim,  whose 
large,  top-booted  person  presently  made  its  appearance  up 
stairs.  He  found  Mrs.  Patten  going  on  so  well  that  there 
was  no  need  to  look  solemn.  He  might  glide  from  condo- 
lence into  gossip  without  offense,  and  the  temptation  of  hav- 
ing Mrs.  Hackit's  ear  was  irresistible. 

"  What  a  disgraceful  business  this  is  turning  out  of  your 
parson's,"  was  the  remark  with  which  he  made  this  agree- 
able transition,  throwing  himself  back  in  the  chair  from 
which  he  had  been  leaning  towards  the  patient. 

"  Eh,  dear  me  !"  said  Mrs.  Hackit, "  disgraceful  enough.  I 
stuck  to  Mr.  Barton  as  long  as  I  could,  for  his  wife's  sake ; 
but  I  can't  countenance  such  goings  on.  It's  hateful  to  see 
that  woman  coming  with  'em  to  service  of  a  Sunday,  and  if 
Mr.  Hackit  wasn't  churchwarden  and  I  didn't  think  it  wrong 
to  forsake  one's  own  parish,  I  should  go  to  Knebley  Church. 
There's  a  many  parish'ners  as  do." 

"I  used  to  think  Barton  was  only  a  fool,"  observed  Mr. 
Pilgrim,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  he  was  conscious  of 
having  been  weakly  charitable.  "  I  thought  he  was  imposed 
upon  and  led  away  by  those  people  when  they  first  came. 
But  that's  impossible  now." 

"Oh,  it's  as  plain  as  the  nose  in  your  face,"  said  Mrs.  Hack- 
it,  unreflectingly,  not  perceiving  the  equivoque  in  her  com- 
parison— "comin'  to  Milby,  like  a  sparrow  perchin'  on  a 
bough,  as  I  may  say,  with  her  brother,  as  she  called  him ;  and 
then  all  on  a  sudden  the  brother  goes  off  with  himself,  and 
she  throws  herself  on  the  Bartons.  Though  what  could  make 
>,er  take  up  with  a  poor  notomise  of  a  parson,  as  hasn't  got 
i  nough  to  keep  wife  and  children,  there's  One  above  knows 
—I  don't." 

"  Mr.  Barton  may  have  attractions  we  don't  know  of,"  said 
Mr.  Pilgrim,  who  piqued  himself  on  a  talent  for  sarcasm. 
;'  The  Countess  has  no  maid  now,  and  they  say  Mr.  Barton  is 
handy  in  assisting  at  her  toilette — laces  her  boots,  and  so 
forth." 

"  T'ilette  be  fiddled !"  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  with  indignant 
boldness  of  metaphor ;  "  an'  there's  that  poor  thing  a-sewing 
her  fingers  to  the  bone  for  them  children — an'  another  comin' 
on.  What  she  must  have  to  go  through !  It  goes  to  my 
heart  to  turn  my  back  on  her.  But  she's  i'  the  wrong  to  let 
herself  be  put  upon  i'  that  manner." 

"  Ah  !  I  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Farquhar  about  that  the  other 
day.  She  said, '  I  think  Mrs.  Barton  a  v-e-r-y  w-e-a-k  w-o-m- 
a-n.' "  (Mr.  Pilgrim  gave  this  quotation  with  slow  emphasis, 
as  if  he  thought  Mrs.  Farquhar  had  uttered  a  remarkable  sen- 


AMOS   BARTOX.  51 

timent.)      "  They  find  it  impossible  to  invite  her  to  their 
house  while  she  has  that  equivocal  person  staying  with  her." 

"  Well !"  remarked  Miss  Gibbs,  "  if  I  was  a  wife,  nothing 
should  induce  me  to  bear  what  Mrs.  Barton  does." 

"  Yes,  it's  fine  talking,"  said  Mrs.  Patten,  from  her  pillow ; 
"  old  maids'  husbands  are  al'ys  well-managed.  If  you  was  a 
wife  you'd  be  as  foolish  as  your  betters,  belike." 

"  All  my  wonder  is,"  observed  Mrs.  Hackit, "  how  the  Bar- 
tons make  both  ends  meet.  You  may  depend  on  it,  she's  got 
nothing  to  give  'em ;  for  I  understand  as  he's  been  having 
money  from  some  clergy  charity.  They  said  at  fust  as  she 
stuffed  Mr.  Barton  wi'  notions  about  her  writing  to  the  Chan- 
cellor an'  her  fine  friends,  to  give  him  a  living.  Howiver,  I 
don't  know  what's  true  an'  what's  false.  Mr.  Barton  keeps 
away  from  our  house  now,  for  I  gave  him  a  bit  o'  my  mind  one 
day.  Maybe  he's  ashamed  of  himself.  He  seems  to  me  to 
look  dreadful  thin  an'  harassed  of  a  Sunday." 

"  Oh,  he  must  be  aware  he's  getting  into  bad  odor  every- 
where. The  clergy  are  quite  disgusted  with  his  folly.  They 
say  Carpe  would  be  glad  to  get  Barton  out  of  the  curacy  if 
he  could  ;  but  he  can't  do  that  without  coming  to  Shepper- 
ton  himself,  as  Barton's  a  licensed  curate ;  and  he  wouldn't 
like  that,  I  suppose." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Patten  showed  signs  of  uneasiness, 
which  recalled  Mr.  Pilgrim  to  professional  attentions ;  and 
Mrs.  Hackit,  observing  that  it  was  Thursday,  and  she  must  see 
after  the  butter,  said  good-bye,  promising  to  look  in  again  soon 
and  bring  her  knitting. 

This  Thursday,  by-the-by,  is  the  first  in  the  month — the 
c\ay  on  which  the  Clerical  Meeting  is  held  at  Milby  Vicarage ; 
and  as  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  has  reasons  for  not  attending 
he  will  very  likely  be  a  subject  of  conversation  amongst  his 
clerical  brethren.  Suppose  AVC  go  there,  and  hear  whether 
Mr.  Pilgrim  has  reported  their  opinion  correctly. 

There  is  not  a  numerous  party  to-day,  for  it  is  a  season  of 
sore  throats  and  catarrhs  ;  so  that  the  exegetical  and  theolog- 
ical discussions,  which  are  the  preliminary  of  dining,  have  not 
been  quite  so  spirited  as  usual ;  and  although  a  question  rel- 
ative to  the  Epistle  of  Jude  has  not  been  quite  cleared  up, 
the  striking  of  six  by  the  church  clock,  and  the  simultaneous 
announcement  of  dinner,  are  sounds  that  no  one  feels  to  be 
importunate. 

Pleasant  (when  one  is  not  in  the  least  bilious)  to  enter  a 
comfortable  dining-room,  where  the  closely-drawn  red  cur- 
tains glow  with  the  double  light  of  fire  and  candle,  where 
glass  and  silver  are  glittering  011  the  pure  damask,  and  a  soup- 


52  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

tureen  gives  a  hint  of  the  fragrance  that  will  presently  rush 
out  to  inundate  your  hungry  senses,  and  prepare  them,  by  the 
delicate  visitation  of  atoms,  for  the  keen  gusto  of  ample  con- 
tact !  Especially  if  you  have  confidence  in  the  dinner-giving 
capacity  of  your  host — if  you  know  that  he  is  not  a  man  who 
entertains  grovelling  views  of  eating  and  drinking  as  a  mere 
satisfaction  of  hunger  and  thirst,  and,  dead  to  all  the  finer  in- 
fluences of  the  palate,  expects  his  guest  to  be  brilliant  on  ill- 
'  flavored  gravies  and  the  cheapest  Marsala.  Mr.  Ely  was  par- 
ticularly worthy  of  such  confidence,  and  his  virtues  as  an  Am- 
phitryon had  probably  contributed  quite  as  much  as  the  cen- 
tral situation  of  Milby  to  the  selection  of  his  house  as  a  cler- 
ical rendezvous.  He  looks  particularly  graceful  at  the  head 
of  his  table,  and,  indeed,  on  all  occasions  where  he  acts  as  pres- 
ident or  moderator :  he  is  a  man  who  seems  to  listen  well, 
and  is  an  excellent  amalgam  of  dissimilar  ingredients. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  table,  as  "  Vice,"  sits  Mr.  Fellowes, 
rector  and  magistrate,  a  man  of  imposing  appearance,  with  a 
mellifluous  voice  and  the  readiest  of  tongues.  Mr.  Fellowes 
once  obtained  a  living  by  the  persuasive  charms  of  his  con- 
versation, and  the  fluency  with  which  he  interpreted  the 
opinions  of  an  obese  and  stammering  baronet,  so  as  to  give 
that  elderly  gentleman  a  very  pleasing  perception  of  his  own 
wisdom.  Mr.  Fellowes  is  a  very  successful  man,  and  has  the 
highest  character  every  where  except  in  his  own  parish,  where, 
doubtless  because  his  parishioners  happen  to  be  quarrelsome 
people,  he  is  always  at  fierce  feud  with  a  farmer  or  two,  a  col- 
liery proprietor,  a  grocer  who  was  once  churchwarden,  and  a 
tailor  who  formerly  officiated  as  clerk. 

At  Mr.  Ely's  right  hand  you  see  a  very  small  man  with  a 
sallow  and  somewhat  puffy  face,  whose  hair  is  brushed 
straight  up,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  giving  him  a  height 
some  what  less  disproportionate  to  his  sense  of  his  own  impor- 
tance than  the  measure  of  five  feet  three  accorded  him  by  an 
oversight  of  nature.  This  is  the  Rev.  Archibald  Duke,  a  very 
dyspeptic  and  evangelical  man,  who  takes  the  gloomiest  view 
of  mankind  and  their  prospects,  and  thinks  the  immense  sale 
of  the  "  Pickwick  Papers,"  recently  completed,  one  of  the 
strongest  proofs  of  original  sin.  Unfortunately,  though  Mr. 
Duke  was  not  burdened  with  a  family,  his  yearly  expendi- 
ture was  apt  considerably  to  exceed  his  income ;  and  the  un- 
pleasant circumstances  resulting  from  this,  together  with 
heavy  meat-breakfasts,  may  probably  have  contributed  to  his 
desponding  views  of  the  world  generally. 

Next  to  him  is  seated  Mr.  Furness,  a  tall  young  man,  with 
blond  hair  and  whiskers,  who  was  plucked  at  Cambridge,  en- 


AMOS   BARTON.  53 

tirely  owing  to  his  genius ;  at  least  I  know  that  he  soon  af- 
terwards published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  were  consider- 
ed remarkably  beautiful  by  many  young  ladies  of  his  ac- 
quaintance. Mr.  Furness  preached  his  own  sermons,  as  any 
one  of  tolerable  critical  acumen  might  have  certified  by  com- 
paring them  with  his  poems ;  in  both,  there  was  an  exuber- 
ance of  metaphor  and  simile  entirely  original,  and  not  in  the 
least  borrowed  from  any  resemblance  in  the  things  com- 
pared. 

On  Mr.  Furness's  left  you  see  Mr.  Pugh,  another  young  cu- 
rate, of  much  less  marked  characteristics.  He  had  not  pub- 
lished any  poems ;  he  had  not  even  been  plucked ;  he  had 
neat  black  whiskers  and  a  pale  complexion;  read  prayers 
and  a  sermon  twice  every  Sunday,  and  might  be  seen  any 
day  sallying  forth  on  his  parochial  duties  in  a  white  tie,  a 
well-brushed  hat,  a  perfect  suit  of  black,  and  well-polished 
boots — an  equipment  which  he  probably  supposed  hieroglyph- 
ically  to  represent  the  spirit  of  Christianity  to  the  parish- 
ioners of  Whittlecombe. 

Mr.  Pugh's  vis-d-vis  is  the  Rev.  Martin  Cleves,  a  man 
about  forty — middle-sized,  broad-shouldered,  with  a  negli- 
gently-tied cravat,  large,  irregular  features,  and  a  large  head, 
thickly  covered  with  lanky  brown  hair.  To  a  superficial 
glance,  Mr.  Cleves  is  the  plainest  and  least  clerical-looking  of 
the  party  ;  yet,  strange  to  say,  there  is  the  true  parish  priest, 
the  pastor  beloved,  consulted,  relied  on  by  his  flock ;  a  cler- 
gyman who  is  not  associated  with  the  undertaker,  but  thought 
of  as  the  surest  helper  under  a  difficulty,  as  a  monitor  who  is 
encouraging  rather  than  severe.  Mr.  Cleves  has  the  wonder- 
ful art  of  preaching  sermons  which  the  wheelwright  and  the 
blacksmith  can  understand ;  not  because  he  talks  condescend- 
ing twaddle,  but  because  he  can  call  a  spade  a  spade,  and 
knows  how  to  disencumber  ideas  of  their  wordy  frippery. 
Look  at  him  more  attentively  and  you  will  see  that  his  face 
is  a  very  interesting  one — that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  humor 
and  feeling  playing  in  his  gray  eyes,  and  about  the  corners 
of  his  roughly-cut  mouth : — a  man,  you  observe,  who  has 
most  likely  sprung  from  the  harder-working  section  of  the 
middle  class,  and  has  hereditary  sympathies  with  the  check- 
ered life  of  the  people.  He  gets  together  the  working-men 
in  his  parish  on  a  Monday  evening,  and  gives  them  a  sort  of 
conversational  lecture  on  useful  practical  matters,  telling 
them  stories,  or  reading  some  select  passages  from  an  agree- 
able book,  and  commenting  on  them ;  and  if  you  were  to 
ask  the  first  laborer  or  artisan  in  Tripplegate  what  sort  of 
man  the  parson  was,  he  would  say, — "  a  uncommon  knowin', 


54  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

sensable,  free-spoken  gentleman ;  very  kind  an'  good-natur'd 
too."  Yet,  for  all  this,  he  is  perhaps  the  best  Grecian  of  the 
party,  if  we  except  Mr.  Baird,  the  young  man  on  his  left. 

Mr.  Baird  has  since  gained  considerable  celebrity  as  an 
original  writer  and  metropolitan  lecturer,  but  at  that  time  he 
used  to  preach  in  a  little  church  something  like  a  barn,  to  a 
congregation  consisting  of  three  rich  farmers  and  their  ser- 
vants, about  fifteen  laborers,  and  the  due  proportion  of  wom- 
en and  children.  The  rich  farmers  understood  him  to  be 
"  veiy  high  learnt ; "  but  if  you  had  interrogated  them  for  a 
more  precise  description,  they  would  have  said  that  he  was 
"  a  thinnish-faced  man,  with  a  sort  o'  cast  in  his  eye,  like." 

Seven,  altogether :  a  delightful  number  for  a  dinner-party, 
supposing  the  units  to  be  delightful,  but  every  thing  depends 
on  that.  During  dinner  Mr.  Fellowes  took  the  lead  in  the  con- 
versation, which  set  strongly  in  the  direction  of  mangold- 
wurzel  and  the  rotation  of  crops ;  for  Mr.  Fellowes  and  Mr. 
Cleves  cultivated  their  own  glebes.  Mr.  Ely,  too,  had  some 
agricultural  notions,  and  even  the  Rev.  Archibald  Duke  was 
made  alive  to  that  class  of  mundane  subjects  by  the  posses- 
sion of  some  potato-ground.  The  two  young  curates  talked  a 
little  aside  during  these  discussions,  which  had  imperfect  in- 
terest for  their  unbeneficed  minds ;  and  the  transcendental 
and  near-sighted  Mr.  Baird  seemed  to  listen  somewhat  ab- 
stractedly, knowing  little  more  of  potatoes  and  mangold- 
wurzel  than  that  they  were  some  form  of  the  "  Conditioned." 

"  What  a  hobby  farming  is  with  Lord  Watling  !"  said 
Mr.  Fellowes,  when  the  cloth  was  being  drawn.  "I  went 
over  his  farm  at  Tetterley  with  him  last  summer.  It  is 
really  a  model  farm ;  first-rate  dairy,  grazing,  and  wheat 
land,  and  such  splendid  farm-buildings !  An  expensive  hob- 
by, though.  He  sinks  a  good  deal  of  money  there,  I  fancy. 
He  has  a  great  whim  for  black  cattle,  and  he  sends  that  drunk- 
en old  Scotch  bailiff  of  his  to  Scotland  every  year,  with 
hundreds  in  his  pocket,  to  buy  these  beasts." 

"  By-the-by,"  said  Mr.  Ely,  "  do  you  know  who  is  the  man 
to  whom  Lord  Watling  has  given  the  Bramhill  living  ?" 

"A  man  named  Sargent.  I  knew  him  at  Oxford.  His 
brother  is  a  lawyer,  and  was  very  useful  to  Lord  Watling  in 
that  ugly  Brounsell  affair.  That's  why  Sargent  got  the  liv- 
ing." 

"  Sargent,"  said  Mr.  Ely.  "  I  know  him.  Isn't  he  a  showy, 
talkative  fellow;  has  written  travels  in  Mesopotamia,  or 
something  of  that  sort  ?" 

"That's  the  man." 

"He  was  at  Witherington  once,  as   Bagshawe's  curate. 


AMOS   BARTON.  55 

He  got  into  rather  bad  odor  there,  through  some  scandal 
about  a  flirtation,  I  think." 

"  Talking  of  scandal,"  returned  Mr.  Fellowes,  "  have  you 
heard  the  last  story  about  Barton.  ?  Nisbett  was  telling  me 
the  other  day  that  he  dines  alone  with  the  Countess  at  six, 
while  Mrs.  Barton  is  in  the  kitchen  acting  as  cook." 

"  Rather  an  apocryphal  authority,  Nisbett,"  said  Mr.  Ely. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Cleves,  with  good-natured  humor  twink- 
ling in  his  eyes,  "  depend  upon  it  that  is  a  corrupt  version. 
The  original  text  is,  that  they  all  dined  together  with  six 
— meaning  six  children — and  that  Mrs.  Barton  is  an  excel- 
lent cook" 

"  I  wish  dining  alone  together  may  be  the  worst  of  that 
sad  business,"  said  the  Rev.  Archibald  Duke,  in  a  tone  im- 
plying that  his  wish  was  a  strong  figure  of  speech. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Fellowes,  filling  his  glass  and  looking 
jocose,  "  Barton  is  certainly  either  the  greatest  gull  in  exist- 
ence, or  he  has  some  cunning  secret, — some  philtre  or  other 
to  make  himself  charming  in  the  eyes  of  a  fair  lady.  It  isn't; 
all  of  us  that  can  make  conquests  when  our  ugliness  is 
past  its  bloom." 

"  The  lady  seemed  to  have  made  a  conquest  of  him  at  the 
very  outset,"  said  Mr.  Ely.  "  I  was  immensely  amused  one 
night  at  Granby's  when  he  was  telling  us  her  story  about  her 
husband's  adventures.  He  said,  '  When  she  told  me  the  tale, 
I  felt  I  don't  know  how, — I  felt  it  from  the  crown  of  my 
head  to  the  sole  of  my  feet.' " 

Mr.  Ely  gave  these  words  dramatically,  imitating  the 
Rev.  Amos's  fervor  and  symbolic  action,  and  every  one 
laughed  except  Mr.  Duke,  whose  after-dinner  view  of  things 
was  not  apt  to  be  jovial.  He  said, — 

"  I  think  some  of  us  ought  to  remonstrate  with  Mr.  Bar- 
ton on  the  scandal  he  is  causing.  He  is  not  only  imperilling 
his  own  soul,  but  the  souls  of  his  flock." 

"Depend  upon  it,"  said  Mr.  Cleves,  "there  is  some  simple 
explanation  of  the  whole  affair,  if  we  only  happened  to  know 
it.  Barton  has  always  impressed  me  as  a  right-minded  man, 
who  has  the  knack  of  doing  himself  injustice  by  his  manner." 

"  Now  I  never  liked  Barton,"  said  Mr.  Fellowes.  "  He's 
not  a  gentleman.  Why,  he  used  to  be  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  that  canting  Prior,  who  died  a  little  while  ago ; —  a  fel- 
low who  soaked  himself  with  spirits,  and  talked  of  the  Gos- 
pel through  an  inflamed  nose." 

"  The  Countess  has  given  him  more  refined  tastes,  I  dare 
say,"  said  Mr.  Ely. 

"  Well,"  observed  Mr.  Cleves,  "  the  poor  fellow  must  have 


56  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

a  hard  pull  to  get  along,  with  his  small  income  and  large 
family.  Let  us  hope  the  Countess  does  some  thing  towards 
making  the  pot  boil." 

"  Not  she,"  said  Mr.  Duke ;  "  there  are  greater  signs  of 
poverty  about  them  than  ever." 

"  Well,  come,"  returned  Mr.  Cleves,  who  could  be  caustic 
sometimes,  and  who  was  not  at  all  fond  of  his  reverend  broth- 
er, Mr.  Duke,  "that's  something  in  Barton's  favor  at  all 
events.  He  might  be  poor  without  showing  signs  of  pover- 
ty." 

Mr.  Duke  turned  rather  yellow,  which  was  his  way  of 
blushing,  and  Mr.  Ely  came  to  his  relief  by  observing, 

"  They're  making  a  very  good  piece  of  work  of  Shepper- 
ton  Church.  Dolby,  the  architect,  who  has  it  in  hand,  is  a 
very  clever  fellow." 

"  It's  he  who  has  been  doing  Coppleton  Church,"  said  Mr. 
Furness.  "  They've  got  it  in  excellent  order  for  the  visita- 
tion." 

This  mention  of  the  visitation  suggested  the  Bishop,  and 
thus  opened  a  wide  duct,  which  entirely  diverted  the  stream 
of  animadversion  from  that  small  pipe — that  capillary  vessel, 
the  Rev.  Amos  Barton. 

The  talk  of  the  clergy  about  their  Bishop  belongs  to  the 
esoteric  part  of  their  profession ;  so  we  will  at  once  quit  the 
dining-room  at  Milby  Vicarage,  lest  we  should  happen  to 
overhear  remarks  unsuited  to  the  lay  understanding,  and 
perhaps  dangerous  to  our  repose  of  mind. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

I  DAEE  say  the  long  residence  of  the  Countess  Czerlaski  at 
Shepperton  Vicarage  is  very  puzzling  to  you  also,  dear  read- 
er, as  well  as  to  Mr.  Barton's  clerical  brethren ;  the  more  so, 
as  I  hope  you  are  not  in  the  least  inclined  to  put  that  very 
evil  interpretation  on  it  which  evidently  found  acceptance 
with  the  sallow  and  dyspeptic  Mr.  Duke,  and  with  the  florid 
and  highly  peptic 'Mr.  Fellowes.  You  have  seen  enough,  I 
trust,  of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  to  be  convinced  that  he  was 
more  apt  to  fall  into  a  blunder  than  into  a  sin — more  apt  to 
be  deceived  than  to  incur  a  necessity  for  being  deceitful ;  and 
if  you  have  a  keen  eye  for  physiognomy,  you  will  have  de- 
tected that  the  Countess  Czerlaski  loved  herself  far  too  well 
to  get  entangled  in  an  unprofitable  vice. 


AMOS   BARTON.  57 

How,  then,  you  will  say,  could  this  fine  lady  choose  to 
quarter  herself  on  the  establishment  of  a  poor  curate,  where 
the  carpets  were  probably  falling  into  holes,  where  the  at- 
tendance was  limited  to  a  maid-of-all-work,  and  where  six 
children  were  running  loose  from  eight  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing till  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  ?  Surely  you  must  be 
straining  probability.  3  . 

Heaven  forbid !  For  not  having  a  lofty  imagination,  as 
you  perceive,  and  being  unable  to  invent  thrilling  incidents 
for  your  amusement,  my  only  merit  must  lie  in  the  truth 
with  which  I  represent  to  you  the  humble  experience  of  or- 
dinary fellow-mortals.  I  wish  to  stir  your  sympathy  with 
commonplace  troubles — to  win  your  tears  for  real  sorrow: 
sorrow  such  as  may  live  next  door  to  you — such  as  walks 
neither  in  rags  nor  in  velvet,  but  in  very  ordinary  decent  ap- 
parel. 

Therefore,  that  you  may  dismiss  your  suspicions  as  to  the 
truth  of  my  picture,  I  will  beg  you  to  consider  that  at  the 
time  the  Countess  Czerlaski  left  Camp  Villa  in  dudgeon,  she 
had  only  twenty  pounds  in  her  pocket,  being  about  one-third 
of  the  income  she  possessed  independently  of  her  brother. 
You  will  then  perceive  that  she  was  in  the  extremely  incon- 
venient predicament  of  having  quarrelled,  not  indeed  with 
her  bread  and  cheese,  but  certainly  with  her  chicken  and  tart 
— a  predicament  all  the  more  inconvenient  to  her,  because  the 
habit  of  idleness  had  quite  unfitted  her  for  earning  those  nec- 
essary superfluities,  and  because,  with  all  her  fascinations, 
she  had  not  secured  any  enthusiastic  friends  whose  houses 
were  open  to  her,  and  who  were  dying  to  see  her.  Thus  she 
had  completely  checkmated  herself,  unless  she  could  resolve 
on  one  unpleasant  move — namely,  to  humble  herself  to  her 
brother,  and  recognize  his  wife.  This  seemed  quite  impossi- 
ble to  her  as  long  as  she  entertained  the  hope  that  he  would 
make  the  first  advances ;  and  in  this  flattering  hope  she  re- 
mained month  after  month  at  Shepperton  Vicarage,  graceful- 
ly overlooking  the  deficiencies  of  accommodation,  and  feeling 
that  she  was  really  behaving  charmingly.  "  Who  indeed," 
she  thought  to  herself,  "  could  do  otherwise,  with  a  lovely, 
gentle  creature  like  Milly  ?  I  shall  really  be  sorry  to  leave 
the  poor  thing." 

So,  though  she  lay  in  bed  till  ten,  and  came  down  to  a 
separate  breakfast  at  eleven,  she  kindly  consented  to  dine  aa 
early  as  five,  when  a  hot  joint  was  prepared,  which  coldly 
furnished  forth  the  children's  table  the  next  day;  she  consid- 
erately prevented  Milly  from  devoting  herself  too  closely  to 
the  children,  by  insisting  on  reading,  talking,  and  walking 

3* 


58  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

with  her ;  and  she  even  began  to  embroider  a  cap  for  the  next 
baby,  which  must  certainly  be  a  girl,  and  be  named  Caroline. 

After  the  first  month  or  two  of  her  residence  at  the  Vicar- 
age, the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  became  aware — as,  indeed,  it  was 
unavoidable  that  he  should — of  the  strong  disapprobation  it 
drew  upon  him,  and  the  change  of  feeling  towards  him  which 
it  was  producing  in  his  kindest  parishioners.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  he  still  believed  in  the  Countess  as  a  charming  and  in- 
fluential woman,  disposed  to  befriend  him,  and,  in  any  case, 
he  could  hardly  hint  departure  to  a  lady  guest  who  had  been 
kind  to  him  and  his,  and  who  might  any  day  spontaneously 
announce  the  termination  of  her  visit ;  in  the  second  place, 
he  was  conscious  of  his  own  innocence,  and  felt  some  con- 
temptuous indignation  towards  people  who  were  ready  to  im- 
agine evil  of  him;  and,  lastly,  he  had,  as  I  have  already  inti- 
mated, a  strong  will  of  his  own,  so  that  a  certain  obstinacy 
and  defiance  mingled  itself  with  his  other  feelings  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

The  one  unpleasant  consequence  which  was  not  to  be 
evaded  or  counteracted  by  any  mere  mental  state,  was  the 
increasing  drain  on  his  slender  purse  for  household  expenses, 
to  meet  which  the  remittance  he  had  received  from  the  cleri- 
cal charity  threatened  to  be  quite  inadequate.  Slander  may 
be  defeated  by  equanimity ;  but  courageous  thoughts  will  not 
pay  your  baker's  bill,  and  fortitude  is  nowhere  considered 
legal  tender  for  beef.  Month  after  month  the  financial  aspect 
of  the  Rev.  Amos's  affairs  became  more  and  more  serious  to 
him,  and  month  after  month,  too,  wore  away  more  and  more 
of  that  armor  of  indignation  and  defiance  with  which  he 
had  at  first  defended  himself  from  the  harsh  looks  of  faces 
that  were  once  the  friendliest. 

But  quite  the  heaviest  pressure  of  the  trouble  fell  on  Milly 
— on  gentle,  uncomplaining  Milly — whose  delicate  body  was 
becoming  daily  less  fit  for  all  the  many  things  that  had  to  be 
done  between  rising  up  and  lying  down.  At  first,  she  thought 
the  Countess's  visit  would  not  last  long,  and  she  was  quite 
glad  to  incur  extra  exertion  for  the  sake  of  making  her  friend 
comfortable.  I  can  hardly  bear  to  think  of  all  the  rough  work 
she  did  with  those  lovely  hands — all  by  the  sly,  without  let- 
ting her  husband  know  any  thing  about  it,  and  husbands  are 
not  clairvoyant :  how  she  salted  bacon,  ironed  shirts  and  cra- 
vats, put  patches  on  patches,  and  re-darned  darns.  Then  there 
was  the  task  of  mending  and  eking  out  baby-linen  in  prospect, 
and  the  problem  perpetually  suggesting  itself  how  she  and 
Nanny  should  manage  when  there  was  another  baby,  as  there 
would  be  before  very  many  months  were  past. 


AMOS   BARTON.  59 

"When  time  glided  on,  and  the  Countess's  visit  did  not  end, 
Mill  y  was  not  blind  to  any  phase  of  their  position.  She  knew  of 
the  slander;  she  was  aware  of  the  keeping  aloof  of  old  friends ; 
but  these  she  felt  almost  entirely  on  her  husband's  account. 
A  loving  woman's  world  lies  within  the  four  walls  of  her  own 
home ;  and  it  is  only  through  her  husband  that  she  is  in  any 
electric  communication  with  the  world  beyond.  Mrs.  Simpkins 
may  have  looked  scornfully  at  her,  but  baby  crows  and  holds 
out  his  little  arms  none  the  less  blithely ;  Mrs.  Tomkins  may 
have  left  off  calling  on  her,  but  her  husband  comes  home  none 
the  less  to  receive  her  care  and  caresses ;  it  has  been  wet  and 
gloomy  out  of  doors  to-day,  but  she  has  looked  well  after  the 
shirt-buttons,  has  cut  out  baby's  pinafores,  and  half  finished 
Willy's  blouse. 

So  it  was  with  Milly.  She  was  only  vexed  that  her  hus- 
band should  be  vexed — only  wounded  because  he  was  mis- 
conceived. But  the  difficulty  about  ways  and  means  she  felt 
in  quite  a  different  manner.  Her  rectitude  Avas  alarmed  lest 
they  should  have  to  make  tradesmen  wait  for  their  money ; 
her  motherly  love  dreaded  the  diminution  of  comforts  for  the 
children  ;  and  the  sense  of  her  own  failing  health  gave  exag- 
gerated force  to  these  fears. 

Milly  could  no  longer  shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact,  that  the 
Countess  was  inconsiderate,  if  she  did  not  allow  herself  to 
entertain  severer  thoughts ;  and  she  began  to  feel  that  it 
would  soon  be  a  duty  to  tell  her  frankly  that  they  really 
could  not  afford  to  have  her  visit  further  prolonged.  But  a 
process  was  going  forward  in  two  other  minds,  which  ulti- 
mately saved  Milly  from  having  to  perform  this  painful  task. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Countess  was  getting  weary  of  Shep- 
perton — weary  of  waiting  for  her  brother's  overtures  which 
never  came ;  so,  one  fine  morning,  she  reflected  that  forgive- 
ness was  a  Christian  duty,  that  a  sister  should  be  placable, 
that  Mr.  Bridmain  must  feel  the  need  of  her  advice,  to  which 
he  had  been  accustomed  for  three  years,  and  that  very  likely 
"that  woman"  didn't  make  the  poor  man  happy.  In  this 
amiable  frame  of  mind  she  wrote  a  very  affectionate  appeal, 
and  addressed  it  to  Mr.  Bridmain,  through  his  banker. 
-  Another  mind  that  was  being  wrought  up  to  a  climax  was 
Xanny's,  the  maid-of-all-work,  who  had  a  warm  heart  and  a 
still  warmer  temper.  Nanny  adored  her  mistress;  she  had 
been  heard  to  say,  that  she  was  "  ready  to  kiss  the  ground  as 
the  missis  trod  on ;"  and  Walter,  she  considered,  was  her 
baby,  of  whom  she  was  as  jealous  as  a  lover.  But  she  had, 
from  the  first,  very  slight  admiration  for  the  Countess  Czer 
laski.  That  lady,  from  Nanny's  point  of  view,  was  a  person- 


60  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

age  always  "  drawed  out  i'  fine  clothes,"  the  chief  result  of 
whose  existence  was  to  cause  additional  bed-making,  carry- 
ing of  hot  water,  laying  of  table-cloths,  and  cooking  of  din- 
ners. It  was  a  perpetually  heightening  "aggravation"  to 
Nanny  that  she  and  her  mistress  had  to  "  slave  "  mote  than 
ever,  because  there  was  this  fine  lady  in  the  house. 

"An'  she  pays  nothin'  ibr't  neither,"  observed  Nanny  to 
Mr.  Jacob  Tomms,  a  young  gentleman  in  the  tailoring  line, 
who  occasionally — simply  out  of  a  taste  for  dialogue — looked 
into  the  vicarage  kitchen  of  an  evening.  "  I  know  the  mas- 
ter's shorter  o'  money  than  iver,  an'  it  meks  no  end  o'  differ- 
ence i'  th'  housekeepin' — her  bein'  here,  besides  bein'  obliged 
to  have  a  charwoman  constant." 

"There's  fine  stories  i'  the  village  about  her,"  said  Mr. 
Tomms.  "  They  say  as  Muster  Barton's  great  wi'  her,  or  else 
she'd  niver  stop  here." 

"  Then  they  say  a  passill  o'  lies,  an'  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  go  an'  tell  'em  o'er  again.  Do  you  think  as  the  master, 
as  has  got  a  wife  like  the  missis,  'ud  go  running  arter  a  stuck- 
up  piece  o'  goods  like  that  Countess,  as  isn't  fit  to  black  the 
missis's  shoes?  I'm  none  so  fond  o'  the  master, but  I  know 
better  on  him  nor  that." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  b'lieve  it,"  said  Mr.  Tomms,  humbly. 

"B'lieve  it?  you'd  ha'  been  a  ninny  if  yer  did.  An'  she's 
a  nasty,  stingy  thing,  that  Countess.  She's  niver  giv  me  a 
sixpence  nor  an  old  rag  neither,  sin'  here  she's  been.  A  lyin' 
abed  an  a-comin'  down  to  breakfast  when  other  folks  wants 
their  dinner !" 

If  such  was  the  state  of  Nanny's  mind  as  early  as  the  end 
i  f  August,  when  this  dialogue  with  Mr.  Tomms  occurred,  you 
may  imagine  what  it  must  have  been  by  the  beginning  of 
November,  and  that  at  that  time  a  very  slight  spark  might 
any  day  cause  the  long-smouldering  anger  to  flame  forth  in 
open  indignation. 

That  spark  happened  to  fall  the  very  morning  that  Mrs. 
Hackit  paid  the  visit  to  Mrs.  Patten,  recorded  in  the  last 
chapter.  Nanny's  dislike  to  the  Countess  extended  to  the 
innocent  dog  Jet,  whom  she  "  couldn't  a-bear  to  see  made  a 
fuss  wi'  like  a  Christian.  An'  the  little  ouzel  must  be  wash- 
ed, too,  ivery  Saturday,  as  if  there  wasn't  children  enoo  to 
wash,  wi'out  washin'  dogs." 

Now  this  particular  morning  it  happened  that  Milly  was 
quite  too  poorly  to  get  up,  and  Mr.  Barton  observed  to  Nan- 
ny, on  going  out,  that  he  would  call  and  tell  Mr.  Brand  to 
come.  These  circumstances  were  already  enough  to  make 
Nanny  anxious  and  susceptible.  But  the  Countess,  comfort- 


AMOS   BARTON.  61 

ably  ignorant  of  them,  came  down  as  usual  about  eleven 
o'clock  to  her  separate  breakfast,  which  stood  ready  for  her 
at  that  hour  in  the  parlor ;  the  kettle  singing  on  the  hob 
that  she  might  make  her  own  tea.  There  was  a  little  jug  of 
cream,  taken  according  to  custom  from  last  night's  milk,  and 
specially  saved  for  the  Countess's  breakfast.  Jet  always 
awaited  his  mistress  at  her  bedroom  door,  and  it  was  her  hab- 
it to  carry  him  down  stairs. 

"  Now,  my  little  Jet,"  she  said,  putting  him  down  gently 
on  the  hearth-nig, "  you  shall  have  a  nice,  nice  breakfast." 

Jet  indicated  that  he  thought  that  observation  extremely 
pertinent  and  well-timed,  by  immediately  raising  himself  on 
his  hind  legs,  and  the  Countess  emptied  the  cream-jug  into  the 
saucer.  Now  there  was  usually  a  small  jug  of  milk  standing 
on  the  tray  by  the  side  of  the  cream,  and  destined  for  Jet's 
breakfast,  but  this  morning  Nanny,  being  "  moithered,"  had 
forgotten  that  part  of  the  arrangements,  so  that  when  the 
Countess  had  made  her  tea,  she  perceived  there  was  no  second 
jug,  and  fang  the  bell.  Nanny  appeared,  looking  very  red  and 
heated — the  fact  was,  she  had  been  "  doing  up  "  the  kitchen 
fire,  and  that  is  a  sort  of  work  which  by  no  means  conduces 
to  blandness  of  temper. 

"  Nanny,  you  have  forgotten  Jet's  milk ;  will  you  bring 
me  some  more  cream,  please?" 

This  was  just  a  little  too  much  for  Nanny's  forbearance. 

"Yes,  I  dare  say.  Here  am  I  wi'  my  hands  full  o'  the  chil- 
dren an'  the  dinner,  and  missis  ill  a-bed,  and  Mr.  Brand  a-com- 
in' ;  and  I  must  run  o'er  the  village  to  get  more  cream,  'cause 
you've  give  it  to  that  nasty  little  blackamoor." 

"  Is  Mrs.  Barton  ill  ?" 

"Ill — yes — I  should  think  she  is  ill,  an'  much  you  care. 
She's  likely  to  be  ill,  moithered  as  she  is  from  mornin'  to  night, 
wi'  folks  as  had  better  be  elsewhere." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  behaving  in  this  way  ?" 

" Mean  ?  Why  I  mean  as  the  missis  is  a-slavin'  her  life 
out  an'  a-sittin'  up  o'nights,  for  folks  as  are  better  able  to  wait 
of  her,  i'stid  o'  lyin'  a-bed  an'  doin'  nothin'  all  the  blessed  day, 
but  mek  work." 

"Leave  the  room, and  don't  be  insolent." 

"  Insolent !  I'd  better  be  insolent  than  like  what  some 
folks  is, — a-livin'  on  other  folks,  an'  bringin'  a  bad  name  on 
'em  into  the  bargain." 

Here  Nanny  flung  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  lady  to  di- 
gest this  unexpected  breakfast  at  her  leisure. 

The  Countess  was  stunned  for  a  few  minutes,  but  when 
she  began  to  recall  Nanny's  words,  there  was  no  possibility 


62  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

of  avoiding  very  unpleasant  conclusions  from  them,  or  of  fail- 
ing to  see  her  position  at  the  Vicarage  in  an  entirely  new 
light.  The  interpretation,  too,  of  Nanny's  allusion  to  a  "bad 
name  "  did  not  lie  out  of  the  reach  of  the  Countess's  imagi- 
nation, and  she  saw  the  necessity  of  quitting  Shepperton  with- 
out delay.  Still,  she  would  like  to  wait  for  her  brother's  let- 
ter— no — she  would  ask  Milly  to  forward  it  to  her — still  bet- 
ter, she  would  go  at  once  to  London,  inquire  her  brother's  ad- 
dress at  his  banker's,  and  go  to  see  him  without  preliminary. 

She  went  up  to  Milly's  room,  and,  after  kisses  and  inquiries, 
said — "  I  find  on  consideration,  dear  Milly,  from  the  letter  I 
had  yesterday,  that  I  must  bid  you  good-bye  and  go  up  to 
London  at  once.  But  you  must  not  let  me  leave  you  ill,  you 
naughty  thing." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Milly,  who  felt  as  if  a  load  had  been  taken 
off  her  back, "  I  shall  be  very  well  in  an  hour  or  two.  Indeed, 
I'm  much  better  now.  You  will  want  me  to  help  you  to  pack. 
But  you  won't  go  for  tAvo  or  three  days  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  must  go  to-morrow.  But  I  shall  not  let  you  help 
me  to  pack,  so  don't  entertain  any  unreasonable  projects,  but 
lie  still.  Mr.  Brand  is  coming,  Nanny  says." 

The  news  was  not  an  unpleasant  surprise  to  Mr.  Barton 
when  he  came  home,  though  he  was  able  to  express  more  re- 
gret at  the  idea  of  parting  than  Milly  could  summon  to  her 
lips.  He  retained  more  of  his  original  feeling  for  the  Count- 
ess than  Milly  did,  for  women  never  betray  themselves  to 
men  as  they  do  to  each  other;  and  the  Rev.  Amos  had  not  a 
keen  instinct  for  character.  But  he  felt  that  he  was  being 
relieved  from  a  difficulty,  and  in  the  way  that  was  easiest 
for  him.  Neither  he  nor  Milly  suspected  that  it  was  Nanny 
who  had  cut  the  knot  for  them,  for  the  Countess  took  care  to 
give  no  sign  on  that  subject.  As  for  Nanny,  she  was  per- 
fectly aware  of  the  relation  between  cause  and  effect  in  the 
affair,  and  secretly  chuckled  over  her  outburst  of  "  sauce " 
as  the  best  morning's  work  she  had  ever  done. 

So,  on  Friday  morning,  a  fly  was  seen  standing  at  the 
Vicarage  gate  with  the  Countess's  boxes  packed  upon  it; 
and  presently  that  lady  herself  was  seen  getting  into  the  ve- 
hicle. After  a  last  shake  of  the  hand  to  Mr.  Barton,  and  last 
kisses  to  Milly  and  the  children,  the  door  was  closed ;  and 
as  the  fly  rolled  off,  the  little  party  at  the  Vicarage  gate 
caught  a  last  glimpse  of  the  handsome  Countess  leaning  and 
waving  kisses  from  the  carriage  window.  Jet's  little  black 
phiz  was  also  seen,  and  doubtless  he  had  his  thoughts  and 
feelings  on  the  occasion,  but  he  kept  them  strictly  within 
his  own  bosom. 


AMOS    BARTON.  63 

The  schoolmistress  opposite  witnessed  this  departure,  and 
lost  no  time  in  telling  it  to  the  schoolmaster,  who  again  com- 
municated the  news  to  the  landlord  of  "  The  Jolly  Colliers," 
at  the  close  of  the  morning  school-hours.  Nanny  poured  the 
joyful  tidings  into  the  ear  of  Mr.  Farquhar's  footman,  who 
happened  to  call  with  a  letter,  and  Mr.  Brand  carried  them  to 
all  the  patients  he  visited  that  morning,  after  calling  on  Mrs. 
Barton.  So  that,  before  Sunday,  it  was  very  generally  known 
in.Shepperton  parish  that  the  Countess  Czerlaski  had  left  the 
Vicarage. 

The  Countess  had  left,  but  alas,  the  bills  she  had  contrib- 
uted to  swell  still  remained ;  so  did  the  exiguity  of  the  chil- 
dren's clothing,  which  also  was  partly  an  indirect  consequence 
of  her  presence ;  and  so,  too,  did  the  coolness  and  alienation 
in  the  parishioners,  which  could  not  at  once  vanish  before 
the  i'act  of  her  departure.  The  Rev.  Amos  was  not  excul- 
pated— the  past  was  not  expunged.  But  what  was  worse 
than  all,  Milly's  health  gave  frequent  cause  for  alarm,  and 
the  prospect  of  baby's  birth  was  overshadowed  by  more 
than  the  usual  fears.  The  birth  came  prematurely,  about 
six  weeks  after  the  Countess's  departure,  but  Mr.  Brand 
gave  favorable  reports  to  all  inquirers  on  the  following  day, 
which  was  Saturday.  On  Sunda}T,  after  morning  service', 
Mrs.  Hackit  called  at  the  Vicarage  to  inquire  how  Mrs.  Bar- 
ton was,  and  was  invited  up  stairs  to  see  her.  Milly  lay 
placid  and  lovely  in  her  feebleness,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
Mrs.  Hackit  with  a  beaming  smile.  It  was  very  pleasant  to 
her  to  see  her  old  friend  unreserved  and  cordial  once  more. 
The  seven  months'  baby  was  very  tiny  and  very  red,  but 
"  handsome  is  that  handsome  does  " — he  was  pronounced  to 
be  "  doing  Avell,"  and  Mrs.  Hackit  went  home  gladdened  at 
heart  to  think  that  the  perilous  hour  was  over. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 

THE  following  Wednesday,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hackit 
were  seated  comfortably  by  their  bright  hearth,  enjoying 
the  long  afternoon  afforded  by  an  early  dinner,  Rachel,  the 
housemaid,  came  in  and  said, 

"  If  you  please,  'm,  the  shepherd  says,  have  you  heard  as 
Mrs.  Barton's  WUPS,  and  not  expected  to  live  ?" 

Mrs.  Hackit  turned  pale,  and  hurried  out  to  question  the 
shepherd,  who,  she  found,  had  heai'd  the  sad  news  at  an  ale- 


64  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

house  in  the  village.     Mr.  Hackit  followed  her  out  and  said, 
"  You'd  better  have  the  pony-chaise,  and  go  directly." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  too  much  overcome  to  utter  any 
exclamations.  "  Rachel,  come  and  help  me  on  wi'  my 
things."  When  her  husband  was  wrapping  her  cloak  round 
her  feet  in  the  pony-chaise,  she  said, 

"  If  I  don't  come  home  to-night,  I  shall  send  back  the  pony- 
chaise,  and  you'll  know  I'm  wanted  there." 
"  Yes,  yes." 

It  was  a  bright  frosty  day,  and  by  the  time  Mrs.  Hackit 
arrived  at  the  Vicarage,  the  sun  was  near  its  setting.  There 
was  a  carriage  and  pair  standing  at  the  gate,  which  she  recog- 
nized as  Dr.  Madeley's,  the  physician  from  Rotherby.  She 
entered  at  the  kitchen  door  that  she  might  avoid  knocking, 
and  quietly  questioned  Nanny.  No  one  was  in  the  kitchen, 
but,  passing  on,  she  saw  the  sitting-room  door  open,  and  Nan- 
ny, with  Walter  in  her  arms,  removing  the  knives  and  forks, 
which  had  been  laid  for  dinner  three  hours  ago. 

"  Master  says  he  can't  eat  no  dinner,"  was  Nanny's  first 
word.  "  He's  never  tasted  nothin'  sin'  yesterday  mornin', 
but  a  cup  o'  tea." 

"  When  was  your  missis  took  worse  ?" 
"  O'  Monday  night.    They  sent  for  Dr.  Madeley  i'  the  mid- 
dle o'  the  day  yisterday,  an'  he's  here  again  now." 
"  Is  the  baby  alive  ?" 

"  No,  it  died  last  night.  The  children's  all  at  Mrs.  Bond's. 
She  come  and  took  'em  away  last  night,  but  the  master  says 
they  must  be  fetched  soon.  He's  up  stairs  now,  wi'  Dr.  Made- 
ley  and  Mr.  Brand." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Hackit  heard  the  sound  of  a  heavy, 
slow  foot,  in  the  passage;  and  presently  Amos  Barton  en- 
tered, with  dry,  despairing  eyes,  haggard  and  unshaven.  He 
expected  to  find  the  sitting-room  as  he  left  it,  with  noth- 
ing to  meet  his  eyes  but  Milly's  work-basket  in  the  corner  of 
the  sofa,  and  the  children's  toys  overturned  in  the  bow-win- 
dow. But  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Hackit  come  towards  him  with 
answering  sorrow  in  her  face,  the  pent-up  fountain  of  tears 
was  opened ;  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  hid  his  face,  and 
sobbed  aloud. 

"Bear  up,  Mr.  Barton,"  Mrs.  Hackit  ventured  to  say  at 
last ;  "  bear  up,  for  the  sake  o'  them  dear  children." 

"  The  children,"  said  Amos,  starting  up.     "  They  must  be 

sent  for.   Some  one  must  fetch  them.    Milly  will  want  to  .  .  ." 

He  couldn't  finish  the  sentence,  but  Mrs.  Hackit  understood 

him,  and  said, "  I'll  send  the  man  with  the  pony-carriage  for 

'em." 


AMOS  BARTON;  65 

She  went  out  to  give  the  order,  and  encountered  Dr.  Made- 
ley  and  Mr.  Brand,  who  were  just  going. 

Mr.  Brand  said :  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  are  here, 
Mrs.  Hackit.  No  time  must  be  lost  in  sending  for  the  chil- 
dren. Mrs.  Barton  wants  to  see  them." 

"Do  you  quite  give  her  up, then?" 

"  She  can  hardly  live  through  the  night.  She  begged  us 
to  tell  her  how  long  she  had  to  live.;  and  then  asked  for  the 
children." 

The  pony-carnage  was  sent ;  and  Mrs.  Hackit,  returning 
to  Mr.  Barton,  said  she  would  like  to  go  up  stairs  now.  He 
went  up  stairs  with  her  and  opened  the  door.  The  chamber 
fronted  the  west ;  the  sun  was  just  setting,  and  the  red  light 
fell  full  upon  the  bed,  where  Milly  lay  with  the  hand  of  death 
visibly  upon  her.  The  feather-bed  had  been  removed,  and 
she  lay  low  on  a  mattress,  with  her  head  slightly  raised  by 
pillows.  Her  long  fair  neck  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  a 
painful  efiprt ;  her  features  were  pallid  and  pinched,  and  her 
eyes  were  closed.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room  but  the 
nurse,  and  the  mistress  of  the  free  school,  who  had  come  to 
give  her  help  from  the  beginning  of  the  change. 

Amos  and  Mrs.  Hackit  stood  beside  the  bed,  and  Milly 
opened  her  eyes. 

"  My  darling,  Mrs.  Hackit  is  come  to  see  you." 

Milly  smiled  and  looked  at  her  with  that  strange,  far-off 
look  which  belongs  to  ebbing  life. 

"  Are  the  children  coming  ?"  she  said  painfully. 

"  Yes,  they  will  be  here  directly." 

She  closed  her  eyes  again. 

Presently  the  pony-carnage  was  heard ;  and  Amos,  mo- 
tioning to  Mrs.  Hackit  to  follow  him,  left  the  room.  On  their 
way  down  stairs,  she  suggested  that  the  carriage  should  re- 
main to  take  them  away  again  afterwards,  and  Amos  assent- 
ed. 

There  they  stood  in  the  melancholy  sitting-room — the  five 
sweet  children,  from  Patty  to  Chubby — all,  with  their  moth- 
er's eyes — all,  except  Patty,  looking  up  with  a  vague  fear  at 
their  father  as  he  entered.  Patty  understood  the  great  sor- 
row that  was  come  upon  them,  and  tried  to  check  her  sobs  as 
she  heard  her  papa's  footsteps. 

"My  children,"  said  Amos,  taking  Chubby  in  his  arms, 
"  God  is  going  to  take  away  your  dear  mamma  from  us. 
She  wants  to  see  you  to  say  good-bye.  You  must  try  to  be 
very  good  and  not  cry." 

He  could  say  no  more,  but  turned  round  to  see  if  Nanny 
was  there  with  Walter,  and  then  led  the  way  up  stairs,  lead- 


66  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

ing  Dickey  with  the  other  hand.  Mrs.  Hackit  followed  with 
Sophy  and  Patty,  and  then  came  Nanny  with  Walter  and 
Fred. 

It  seemed  as  if  Milly  had  heard  the  little  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  for  when  Amos  entered  her  eyes  were  wide  open,  ea- 
gerly looking  towards  the  door.  They  all  stood  by  the  bed- 
side—  Amos  nearest  to  her,  holding  Chubby  and  Dickey. 
But  she  motioned  for  Patty  to  come  first,  and  clasping  the 
poor  pale  child  by  the  hand,  said, 

"Patty,  I'm  going  away  from  you.  Love  your  papa. 
Comfort  him;  and  take  care  of  your  little  brothers  and  sis- 
ters. God  will  help  you." 

Patty  stood  perfectly  quiet,  and  said, "  Yes,  mamma." 

The  mother  motioned  with  her  pallid  lips  for  the  dear 
child  to  lean  towards  her  and  kiss  her;  and  then  Patty's 
great  anguish  overcame  her,  and  she  burst  into  sobs.  Amos 
drew  her  towards  him  and  pressed  her  head  gently  to  him, 
while  Milly  beckoned  Fred  and  Sophy,  and  said  to  them  more 
faintly, 

"  Patty  will  try  to  be  your  mamma  when  I  am  gone,  my 
darlings.  You  will  be  good  and  not  vex  her." 

They  leaned  towards  her,  and  she  stroked  their  fair  heads, 
and  kissed  their  tear-stained  cheeks.  They  cried  because 
mamma  was  ill  and  papa  looked  so  unhappy;  but  they 
thought,  perhaps  next  week  things  would  be  as  they  used  to 
be  again. 

The  little  ones  were  lifted  on  the  bed  to  kiss  her.  Little 
Walter  said,  "  Mamma,  mamma,"  and  stretched  out  his  fat 
arms  and  smiled ;  and  Chubby  seemed  gravely  wondering ; 
but  Dickey,  who  had  been  looking  fixedly  at  her,  with  lip 
hanging  down,  ever  since  he  came  into  the  room,  now  seemed 
suddenly  pierced  with  the  idea  that  mamma  was  going  away 
somewhere  ;  his  little  heart  swelled  and  he  cried  aloud. 

Then  Mrs.  Hackit  and  Nanny  took  them  all  away.  Patty 
at  first  begged  to  stay  at  home  and  not  go  to  Mrs.  Bond's 
again ;  but  when  Nanny  reminded  her  that  she  had  better  go 
to  take  care  of  the  younger  ones,  she  submitted  at  once,  and 
they  were  all  packed  in  the  pony-carriage  once  more. 

Milly  kept  her  eyes  shut  for  some  time  after  the  children 
were  gone.  Amos  had  sunk  on  his  knees,  and  was  holding 
her  hand  while  he  watched  her  face.  By-and-by  she  opened 
her  eyes,  and  drawing  him  close  to  her,  whispered  slowly, 

"  My  dear — dear — husband — you  have  been — very — good 
to  me.  You — have — made  me — very — happy." 

She  spoke  no  more  for  many  hours.  They  watched  her 
breathing  becoming  more  and  more  difficult,  until  evening 


"My  dear— dear— husband— you  have  been— very— good  to  me." — PAGE  66. 


68  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

deepened  into  night,  and  until  midnight  was  past.  About 
half  past  twelve  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  speak,  and  they 
leaned  to  catch  her  words. 

"  Music — music — didn't  you  hear  it  ?" 

Amos  knelt  by  the  bed  and  held  her  hand  in  his.  He  did 
not  believe  in  his  sorrow.  It  was  a  bad  dream.  He  did 
not  know  when  she  was  gone.  But  Mr.  Brand,  whom  Mrs. 
Hackit  had  sent  for  before  twelve  o'clock,  thinking  that  Mr. 
Barton  might  probably  need  his  help,  now  came  up  to  him, 
and  said, 

"  She  feels  no  more  pain  now.  Come,  my  dear  sir,  come 
with  me." 

"She  isn't  dead?"  shrieked  the  poor  desolate  man,  strug- 
gling to  shake  off  Mr.  Brand,  who  had  taken  him  by  the  arm. 
But  his  weary,  weakened  frame  was  not  equal  to  resistance, 
and  he  was  dragged  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THEY  laid  her  in  the  grave — the  sweet  mother  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms — while  the  Christmas  snow  lay  thick  upon 
the  graves.  It  was  Mr.  Cleves  who  buried  her.  On  the  first 
news  of  Mr.  Barton's  calamity,  he  had  ridden  over  from  Trip- 
plegate  to  beg  that  he  might  be  made  of  some  use,  and  his 
silent  grasp  of  Amos's  hand  had  penetrated  like  the  painful 
thrill  of  life-recovering  warmth  to  the  poor  benumbed  heart 
of  the  stricken  man. 

The  snow  lay  thick  upon  the  graves,  and  the  day  was  cold 
and  dreary;  but  there  was  many  a  sad  eye  watching  that 
black  procession  as  it  passed  from  the  Vicarage  to  the  church, 
and  from  the  church  to  the  open  grave.  There  were  men  and 
women  standing  in  that  churchyard  who  had  bandied  vulgar 
jests  about  their  pastor,  and  who  had  lightly  charged  him 
with  sin ;  but  now,  when  they  saw  him  following  the  coffin, 
pale  and  haggard,  he  was  consecrated  anew  by  his  great  sor- 
row, and  they  looked  at  him  with  respectful  pity. 

All  the  children  were  there,  for  Amos  had  willed  it  so, 
thinking  that  some  dim  memory  of  that  sacred  moment  might 
remain  even  with  little  Walter,  and  link  itself  with  what  he 
would  hear  of  his  sweet  mother  in  after  years.  He  himself 
led  Patty  and  Dickey ;  then  came  Sophy  and  Fred ;  Mr. 
Brand  had  begged  to  carry  Chubby,  and  Nanny  followed 
with  Walter.  They  made  a  circle  round  the  grave  while  the 


AMOS   BARTON.  69 

coffin  was  being  lowered.  Patty  alone  of  all  the  children  felt 
that  mamma  was  in  that  coffin,  and  that  a  new  and  sadder 
life  had  begun  for  papa  and  herself.  She  was  pale  and  trem- 
bling, but  she  clasped  his  hand  more  firmly  as  the  coffin  went 
down,  and  gave  no  sob.  Fred  and  Sophy,  though  they  were 
only  two  and  three  years  younger,  and  though  they  had  seen 
mamma  in  her  coffin,  seemed  to  themselves  to  be  looking  at 
some  strange  show.  They  had  not  learned  to  decipher  that 
terrible  handwriting  of  human  destiny,  illness  and  death. 
Dickey  had  rebelled  against  his  black  clothes,  until  he  was 
told  that  it  would  be  naughty  to  mamma  not  to  put  them  on, 
when  he  at  once  submitted ;  and  now,  though  he  had  heard 
Nanny  say  that  mamma  was  in  heaven,  he  had  a  vague  notion 
that  she  would  come  home  again  to-morrow,  und  say  he  had 
been  good  boy,  and  let  him  empty  her  work-box.  He  stood 
close  to  his  father,  with  great  rosy  cheeks,  and  wide  open  blue 
eyes,  looking  first  up  at  Mr.  Cleves  and  then  down  at  the  cof- 
fin, and  thinking  he  and  Chubby  would  play  at  that  when 
they  got  home. 

The  burial  was  over,  and  Amos  turned  with  his  children 
to  re-enter  the  house — the  house  where,  an  hour  ago,  Milly's 
dear  body  lay,  where  the  windows  were  half-darkened,  and 
sorrow  seemed  to  have  a  hallowed  precinct  for  itself,  shut 
out  from  the  world.  But  now  she  was  gone;  the  broad 
snow-reflected  daylight  was  in  all  the  rooms ;  the  Vicarage 
again  seemed  part  of  the  common  working-day  world,  and 
Amos,  for  the  first  time,  felt  that  he  was  alone — that  day 
after  day,  month  after  month,  year  after  year,  would  have  to 
be  lived  through  without  Milly's  love.  Spring  would  come 
and  she  would  not  be  there  ;  summer,  and  she  would  not  be 
there ;  and  he  would  never  have  her  again  with  him  by  the 
fireside  in  the  long  evenings.  The  seasons  all  seemed  irk- 
some to  his  thoughts ;  and  how  dreary  the  sunshiny  days 
that  would  be  sure  to  come!  She  was  gone  from  him;  and 
he  could  never  show  her  his  love  any  more,  never  make  up 
for  omissions  in  the  past  by  filling  future  days  with  tender- 
ness. 

Oh  the  anguish  of  that  thought  that  we  can  never  atone  to 
our  dead  for  the  stinted  affection  we  gave  them,  for  the 
light  answers  we  returned  to  their  plaints  or  their  pleadings, 
for  the  little  reverence  we  showed  to  that  sacred  human  soul 
that  lived  so  close  to  us,  and  was  the  divinest  thing  God  had 
given  us  to  know  ! 

Amos  Barton  had  been  an  affectionate  husband,  and  while 
Milly  was  with  him,  he  was  never  visited  by  the  thought 
that  perhaps  his  sympathy  with  her  was  not  quick  and 


70  SCENES   OP-  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

watchful  enough  ;  but  now  he  re-lived  all  their  life  together, 
with  that  terrible  keenness  of  memory  and  imagination  which 
bereavement  gives,  and  he  felt  as  if  his  very  love  needed  a 
pardon  for  its  poverty  and  selfishness. 

No  outward  solace  could  counteract  the  bitterness  of  this 
inward  woe.  But  outward  solace  came.  Cold  faces  looked 
kind  again,  and  parishioners  turned  over  in  their  minds  what 
they  could  best  do  to  help  their  pastor.  Mr.  Oldinport  wrote 
to  express  his  sympathy,  and  enclosed  another  twenty-pound 
note,  begging  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  contribute  in 
this  way  to  the  relief  of  Mr.  Barton's  mind  from  pecuniary 
anxieties,  under  the  pressure  of  a  grief  which  all  his  parish' 
ioners  must  share ;  and  offering  his  interest  towards  placing 
the  two  eldest  girls  in  a  school  expressly  founded  for  clergy- 
men's daughters.  Mr.  Cloves  succeeded  in  collecting  thirty 
pounds  among  his  richer  clerical  brethren,  and,  adding  ten 
pounds  himself,  sent  the  sum  to  Amos,  with  the  kindest 
and  most  delicate  words  of  Christian  fellowship  and  manly 
friendship.  Miss  Jackson  forgot  old  grievances,  and  came  to 
stay  some  months  with  Milly's  children,  bringing  such  ma- 
terial aid  as  she  could  spare  from  her  small  income.  These 
were  substantial  helps,  which  relieved  Amos  from  the  pres- 
sure of  his  money  difficulties ;  and  the  friendly  attentions,  the 
kind  pressure  of  the  hand,  the  cordial  looks  he  met  with 
everywhere  in  his  parish,  made  him  feel  that  the  fatal  frost 
which  had  settled  on  his  pastoral  duties,  during  the  Coun- 
tess's residence  at  the  Vicarage,  was  completely  thawed,  and 
that  the  hearts  of  his  parishioners  were  once  more  open  to 
him. 

No  one  breathed  the  Countess's  name  now;  for  Milly's 
memory  hallowed  her  husband,  as  of  old  the  place  was  hal- 
lowed on  which  an  angel  from  God  had  alighted. 

When  the  spring  came,  Mrs.  Hackit  begged  that  she  might 
have  Dickey  to  stay  with  her,  and  great  was  the  enlarge- 
ment of  Dickey's  experience  from  that  visit.  Every  morning 
he  was  allowed — being  well  wrapt  up  as  to  his  chest  by  Mrs. 
Hackit's  own  hands,  but  very  bare  and  red  as  to  his  legs — 
to  run  loose  in  the  cow  and  poultry  yard,  to  persecute  the 
turkey-cock  by  satirical  imitations  of  his  gobble-gobble,  and 
to  put  difficult  questions  to  the  groom  as  to  the  reasons  why 
horses  had  four  legs,  and  other  transcendental  matters. 
Then  Mr.  Hackit  would  take  Dickey  up  on  horseback  when 
he  rode  round  his  farm,  and  Mrs.  Hackit  had  a  large  plum- 
cake  in  cut,  ready  to  meet  incidental  attacks  of  hunger.  So 
that  Dickey  had  considerably  modified  his  views  as  to  the 
desirability  of  Mrs.  Hackit's  kisses. 


AMOS   BARTON.  71 

The  Misses  Farquhar  made  particular  pets  of  Fred  and 
Sophy,  to  whom  they  undertook  to  give  lessons  twice  a  week 
in  writing  and  geography  ;  and  Mrs.  Farquhar  devised  many 
treats  for  the  little  ones.  Patty's  treat  was  to  stay  at  home, 
or  walk  about  with  her  papa ;  and  when  he  sat  by  the  fire  in 
an  evening,  after  the  other  children  had  gone  to  bed,  she 
would  bring  a  stool,  and,  placing  it  against  his  feet,  would  sit 
down  upon  it  and  lean  her  head  against  his  knee.  Then  his 
hand  would  rest  on  that  fair  head,  and  he  would  feel  that 
Milly's  love  was  not  quite  gone  out  of  his  life. 

So  the  time  wore  on  till  it  was  May  again,  and  the  church 
was  quite  finished  and  reopened  in  all  its  new  splendor,  and 
Mr.  Barton  was  devoting  himself  with  more  vigor  than  ever 
to  his  parochial  duties.  But  one  morning — it  was  a  very 
bright  morning,  and  evil  tidings  sometimes  like  to  fly  in  the 
finest  weather — there  came  a  letter  for  Mr.  Barton,  addressed 
in  the  Vicar's  handwriting.  Amos  opened  it  with  some 
anxiety — somehow  or  other  he  had  a  presentiment  of  evil. 
The  letter  contained  the  announcement  that  Mr.  Carpe  had 
resolved  on  coming  to  reside  at  Shepperton,  and  that,  conse- 
quently, in  six  months  from  that  time  Mr.  Barton's  duties  as 
curate  in  that  parish  would  be  closed. 

Oh,  it  was  hard  !  Just  when  Shepperton  had  become  the 
place  where  he  most  wished  to  stay — where  lie  had  friends 
who  knew  his  sorrows — where  he  lived  close  to  Milly's 
grave.  To  part  from  that  grave  seemed  like  parting  with 
Milly  a  second  time;  for  Amos  was  one  who  clung  to  all  the 
material  links  between  his  mind  and  the  past.  His  imagi- 
nation was  not  vivid,  and  required  the  stimulus  of  actual  per- 
ception. 

It  roused  some  bitter  feeling,  too,  to  think  that  Mr.  Carpe's 
wish  to  reside  at  Shepperton  was  merely  a  pretext  for  re- 
moving Mr.  Barton,  in  order  that  he  might  ultimately  give 
the  curacy  of  Shepperton  to  his  own  brother-in-law,  who  was 
known  to  be  wanting  a  new  position. 

Still  it  must  be  borne ;  and  the  painful  business  of  seeking 
another  curacy  must  be  set  about  without  loss  of  time.  Af- 
ter the  lapse  of  some  months,  Amos  was  obliged  to  renounce 
the  hope  of  getting  one  at  all  near  Shepperton,  and  he  at 
length  resigned  himself  to  accepting  one  in  a  distant  county. 
The  parish  was  in  a  large  manufacturing  town,  where  his 
walks  would  lie  among  noisy  streets  and  dingy  alleys,  and 
where  the  children  would  have  no  garden  to  play  in,  no  pleas- 
ant farm-houses  to  visit. 

It  was  another  blow  inflicted  on  the  bruised  man. 


72  SCENES   OF   CLEEICAL   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

AT  length  the  dreaded  week  was  come,  when  Amos  and  his 
children  must  leave  Shepperton.  There  was  general  regret 
among  the  parishioners  at  his  departure :  not  that  any  one  of 
them  thought  his  spiritual  gifts  pre-eminent,  or  was  conscious 
of  great  edification  from  his  ministry.  But  his  recent  troub- 
les had  called  out  their  better  sympathies,  and  that  is  always 
a  source  of  love.  Amos  failed  to  touch  the  spring  of  good- 
ness by  his  sermons,  but  he  touched  it  effectually  by  his  sor- 
rows ;  and  there  was  now  a  real  bond  between  him  and  his 
flock. 

"  My  heart  aches  for  them  poor  motherless  children,"  said 
Mrs.  Hackit  to  her  husband,  "  a-going  among  strangers,  and 
into  a  nasty  town,  where  there's  no  good  victuals  to  be  had, 
and  you  must  pay  dear  to  get  bad  uns." 

Mrs.  Hackit  had  a  vague  notion  of  a  town  life  as  a  com- 
bination of  dirty  backyards,  measly  pork,  and  dingy  linen. 

The  same  sort  of  sympathy  was  strong  among  the  poorer 
class  of  parishioners.  Old  stiff-jointed  Mr.  Tozer,  who  was 
still  able  to  earn  a  little  by  gardening  "jobs,"  stopped  Mrs. 
Cramp,  the  charwoman,  on  her  way  home  from  the  Vicarage, 
where  she  had  been  helping  Nanny  to  pack  up  the  day  be- 
fore the  departure,  and  inquired  very  particularly  into  Mr. 
Barton's  prospects. 

"Ah,  poor  mon,"  he  was  heard  to  say,"  I'm  sorry  for  un. 
He  hedn't  much  here,  but  he'll  be  wuss  off  theer.  Haifa  loaf's 
better  nor  ne'er  un." 

The  sad  good-byes  had  all  been  said  before  that  last  even- 
ing ;  and  after  all  the  packing  was  done  and  all  the  arrange- 
ments were  made,  Amos  felt  the  oppression  of  that  blank  In- 
terval in  which  one  has  nothing  left  to  think  of  but  the  dreary 
future — the  separation  from  the  loved  and  familiar,  and  the 
chilling  entrance  on  the  new  and  strange.  In  every  parting 
there  is  an  image  of  death. 

Soon  after  ten  o'clock,  when  he  had  sent  Nanny  to  bed, 
that  she  might  have  a  good  night's  rest  before  the  fatigues 
of  the  morrow,  he  stole  softly  out  to  pay  a  last  visit  to  Milly's 
grave.  It  was  a  moonless  night,  but  the  sky  was  thick  with 
stars,  and  their  light  was  enough  to  show  that  the  grass  had 
grown  long  on  the  grave,  and  that  there  was  a  tombstone 
telling  iu  bright  letters,  on  a  dark  ground,  that  beneath  were 


AMOS   BARTON.  73 

deposited  the  remains  of  Amelia,  the  beloved  \vifo  of  Amos 
Barton,  who  died  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  her  age,  leaving 
a  husband  and  six  children  to  lament  her  loss.  The  final 
words  of  the  inscription  were,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

The  husband  was  now  advancing  towards  the  dear  mound 
from  which  he  was  so  soon  to  be  parted,  perhaps  forever.  Ho 
stood  a  few  minutes  reading  over  and  over  again  the  words 
on  the  tombstone,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  all  the  happy 
and  unhappy  past  was  a  reality.  For  love  is  frightened  at 
the  intervals  of  insensibility  and  callousness  that  encroach  by 
little  and  little  on  the  dominion  of  grief,  and  it  makes  efforts 
to  recall  the  keenness  of  the  first  anguish. 

Gradually,  as  his  eye  dwelt  on  the  words, "  Amelia,  the 
beloved  wife,"  the  waves  of  feeling  swelled  within  his  soul, 
and  he  threw  himself  on  the  grave,  clasping  it  with  his  arms, 
and  kissing  the  cold  turf. 

"  Milly,  Milly,  dost  thou  hear  me  ?  I  didn't  love  thec 
enough — I  wasn't  tender  enough  to  thee — but  I  think  of  it  all 
now." 

The  sobs  came  and  choked  his  utterance,  and  the  warm 
tears  fell. 


CONCLUSION. 

ONLY  once  again  in  his  life  has  Amos  Barton  visited  Milly's 
grave.  It  was  in  the  calm  and  softened  light  of  an  autumnal 
afternoon,  and  he  was  not  alone.  He  held  on  his  arm  a  young 
woman,  with  a  sweet,  grave  face,  which  strongly  recalled  the 
expression  of  Mrs.  Barton's,  but  was  less  lovely  in  form  and 
color.  She  was  about  thirty,  but  there  were  some  premature 
lines  round  her  mouth  and  eyes,  which  told  of  early  anxiety. 

Amos  himself  was  much  changed.  His  thin  circlet  of  hair 
was  nearly  white,  and  his  walk  was  no  longer  firm  and  up- 
right. But  his  glance  was  calm,  and  even  cheerful,  and  his 
neat  linen  told  of  a  woman's  care.  Milly  did  not  take  all  her 
love  from  the  earth  when  she  died.  She  had  left  some  of  it 
in  Patty's  heart. 

All  the  other  children  were  now  grown  up,  and  had  gone 
their  several  ways.  Dickey,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear,  had 
shown  remarkable  talents  as  an  engineer.  His  cheeks  are 
still  ruddy,  in  spite  of  mixed  mathematics,  and  his  eyes  are 
still  large  and  blue ;  but  in  other  respects  his  person  would 
present  no  marks  of  identification  for  his  friend  Mrs.  Hackit, 
if  she  were  to  sec  him  ;  especially  now  that  her  eyes  must  be 
grown  very  dim,  with  the  wear  of  more  than  twenty  addition- 

4 


74  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

al  years.  He  is  nearly  six  feet  high,  and  has  a  proportionately 
broad  chest ;  he  wears  spectacles,  and  rubs  his  large  white 
hands  through  a  mass  of  shaggy  brown  hair.  But  I  am  sure 
you  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Richard  Barton  is  a  thoroughly 
good  fellow,  as  well  as  a  man  of  talent,  and  you  will  be  glad 
any  day  to  shake  hands  with  him,  for  his  own  sake  as  well  as 
his  mother's. 

Patty  alone  remains  by  her  father's  side,  and  makes  tha 
evening  sunshine  of  his  life. 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY. 


CHAPTER  L 

WHEN  old  Mr.  Gilfil  died,  thirty  years  ago,  there  was  gen* 
eral  sorrow  in  Shepperton ;  and  if  black  cloth  had  not  been 
hung  round  the  pulpit  and  reading-desk,  by  order  of  his  neph- 
ew and  principal  legatee,  the  parishioners  would  certainly 
have  subscribed  the  necessary  sum  out  of  their  own  pockets, 
rather  than  allow  such  a  tribute  of  respect  to  be  wanting. 
All  the  farmers'  wives  brought  out  their  black  bombazines  ; 
and  Mrs.  Jennings,  at  the  Wharf,  by  appearing  the  first  Sun- 
day after  Mr.  Gilfil's  death  in  her  salmon-colored  ribbons  and 
freen  shawl,  excited  the  severest  remark.  To  be  sure,  Mrs. 
ennings  was  a  new-comer,  and  town-bred,  so  that  she  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  have  very  clear  notions  of  what  was 
proper ;  but,  as  Mrs.  Higgins  observed  in  an  undertone  to 
Mrs.  Parrot  when  they  were  coming  out  of  church, "  Her  hus- 
band, who'd  been  born  i'  the  parish,  might  ha'  told  her  better." 
An  unreadiness  to  put  on  black  on  all  available  occasions,  or 
too  great  an  alacrity  in  putting  it  off,  argued,  in  Mrs.  Higgins'fc 
opinion,  a  dangerous  levity  of  character,  and  an  unnatural  in-' 
sensibility  to  the  essential  fitness  of  things. 

"  Some  folks  can't  a-bear  to  put  off  their  colors,"  she  remark* 
ed  ;  "  but  that  was  never  the  way  i'  my  family.  Why,  Mrs. 
Parrot,  from  the  time  I  was  married,  till  Mr.  Higgins  died, 
nine  year  ago  come  Candlemas,  I  niver  was  out  o'  black  two 
years  together !" 

"  Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Parrot,  who  was  conscious  of  inferiority 
in  this  respect,  "  there  isn't  many  families  as  have  had  so  many 
deaths  as  yours,  Mrs.  Higgins." 

Mrs.  Higgins,  who  was  an  elderly  widow, "  well  left,"  re- 
flected with  complacency  that  Mrs.  Parrot's  observation  was 
no  more  than  just,  and  that  Mrs.  Jennings  very  likely  belong- 
ed to  a  family  which  had  had  no  funerals  to  speak  of. 

Even  dirty  Dame  Fripp,  who  was  a  very  rare  church-goer, 
had  been  to  Mrs.  Hackit  to  beg  a  bit  of  old  crape,  and  with 
this  sign  of  grief  pinned  on  her  little  coal-scuttle  bonnet,  was 


76  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

seen  dropping  her  courtesy  opposite  the  reading-desk.  This 
manifestation  of  respect  towards  Mr.  Gilfil's  memory  on  the 
part  of  Dame  Fripp  had  no  theological  bearing  whatever.  It 
was  due  to  an  event  which  had  occurred  some  years  back,  and 
which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  had  left  that  grimy  old  lady  as  in- 
different to  the  means  of  grace  as  ever.  Dame  Fripp  kept 
leeches, and  was  understood  to  have  such  remarkable  influence 
over  those  willful  animals  in  inducing  them  to  bite  under  the 
most  unpromising  circumstances,  that  though  her  own  leech- 
es were  usually  rejected,  from  a  suspicion  that  they  had  lost 
their  appetite,  she  herself  was  constantly  called  in  to  apply 
the  more  lively  individuals  furnished  from  Mr.  Pilgrim's  sur- 
gery, when,  as  was  very  often  the  case,  one  of  that  clever  man's 
paying  patients  was  attacked  with  inflammation.  Thus  Dame 
Fripp,  in  addition  to  "  property  "  supposed  to  yield  her  no 
less  than  half  a  crown  a  week,  was  in  the  receipt  of  profession- 
al fees,  the  gross  amount  of  which  was  vaguely  estimated  by 
her  neighbors  as  "pouns  an'  pouns."  Moreover,  she  drove 
a  brisk  trade  in  lollipop  with  epicurean  urchins,  who  recklessly 
purchased  that  luxury  at  the  rate  of  two  hundred  per  cent. 
Nevertheless,  with  all  these  notorious  sources  of  income,  the 
shameless  old  woman  constantly  pleaded  poverty,  and  begged 
for  scraps  at  Mrs.  Hackit's,  who,  though  she  always  said  Mrs. 
Fripp  was  "  as  false  as  two  folks,"  and  no  better  than  a  miser 
and  a  heathen,  had  yet  a  leaning  towards  her  as  an  old  neigh- 
bor. 

"  There's  that  case-hardened  old  Judy  a  coming  after  the 
tea-leaves  again,"  Mrs.  Hackit  would  say :  "  an'  I'm  fool 
enough  to  give  'em  her,  though  Sally  wants  'em  all  the  while 
to  sweep  the  floors  with  !" 

Such  was  Dame  Fripp,  whom  Mr.  Gilfil,  riding  leisurely  in 
top-boots  and  spurs  from  doing  duty  at  Knebley  one  warm 
Sunday  afternoon,  observed  sitting  in  the  dry  ditch  near  her 
cottage,  and  by  her  side  a  large  pig,  who,  with  that  ease 
and  confidence  belonging  to  perfect  friendship,  was  lying  with 
his  head  in  her  lap,  and  making  no  effort  to  play  the  agree- 
able beyond  an  occasional  grunt. 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Fripp,"  said  the  Vicar, "  I  didn't  know  you 
had  such  a  fine  pig.  You'll  have  some  rare  flitches  at  Christ- 
mas!" 

"  Eh,  God  forbid  !  My  son  gev  him  me  two  'ear  ago,  an' 
he's  been  company  to  me  iver  sin'.  I  couldn't  find  i'  my 
heart  to  part  wi'm,  if  I  niver  knowed  the  taste  o'  bacon-fat 
agin." 

"  Why,  he'll  eat  his  head  off,  and  yours  too.  How  can  you 
go  on  keeping  a  pig,  and  making  nothing  by  him  ?"  . 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  77 

"  Oh,  he  picks  a  bit  hisself  wi'  rootin',  and  I  dooant  mind 
doing  wi'out  to  gi'  him  summat.  A  bit  o'  coompany's  meat 
an'  drink  too,  an'  he  follers  me  about,  and  grunts  when  I  spake 
to  'm,  just  like  a  Christian." 

Mr.  Gilfil  laughed,  and  I  am  obliged  to  admit  that  he  said 
good-bye  to  Dame  Fripp  without  asking  her  why  she  had  not 
been  to  church,  or  making  the  slightest  effort  for  her  spirit- 
ual edification.  But  the  next  day  he  ordered  his  man  David 
to  take  her  a  great  piece  of  bacon,  with  a  message,  saying, 
the  parson  wanted  to  make  sure  that  Mrs.  Fripp  would  know 
the  taste  of  bacon-fat  again.  So,  when  Mr.  Giltil  died,  Dame 
Fripp  manifested  her  gratitude  and  reverence  in  the  simple 
dingy  fashion  I  have  mentioned. 

You  already  suspect  that  the  Vicar  did  not  shine  in  the 
more  spiritual  functions  of  his  office;  and  indeed,  the  utmost 
I  can  say  for  him  in  this  respect  is,  that  he  performed  those 
functions  with  undeviating  attention  to  brevity  and  dispatch. 

He  had  a  large  heap  of  short  sermons,  rather  yellow  and 
worn  at  the  edges,  from  which  he  took  two  every  Sunday,  se- 
curing perfect  impartiality  in  the  selection  by  taking  them  as 
they  came,  without  reference  to  topics  ;  and  having  preached 
one  of  these  sermons  at  Shepperton  in  the  morning,  he  mount- 
ed his  horse  and  rode  hastily  with  the  other  in  his  pocket  to 
Knebley,  where  he  officiated  in  a  wonderful  little  church  with 
a  checkered  pavement  which  had  once  rung  to  the  iron  tread 
of  military  monks,  with  coats  of  arms  in  clusters  on  the  lofty 
roof,  marble  warriors  and  their  wives  without  noses  occupy- 
ing a  large  proportion  of  the  area,  and  the  twelve  apostles 
with  their  heads  very  much  on  one  side,  holding  didactic 
ribbons,  painted  in  fresco  on  the  walls.  Here,  in  an  absence 
of  mind  to  which  he  was  prone,  Mr.  Gilfil  would  sometimes 
forget  to  take  off  his  spurs  before  putting  on  his  surplice, 
and  only  become  aware  of  the  omission  by  feeling  something 
mysteriously  tugging  at  the  skirts  of  that  garment  as  he 
stepped  into  the  reading-desk.  But  the  Knebley  farmers 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  criticising  the  moon  as  their 
pastor.  He  belonged  to  the  course  of  nature,  like  markets 
and  toll-gates  and  dirty  bank-notes ;  and  being  a  vicar,  his 
claim  on  their  veneration  had  never  been  counteracted  by  an 
exasperating  claim  on  their  pockets.  Some  of  them,  who  did 
not  indulge  in  the  superfluity  of  a  covered  cart  without 
springs,  had  dined  half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual — that  is  to 
say,  at  twelve  o'clock — in  order  to  have  time  for  their  long 
walkthrough  miry  lanes,  and  present  themselves  duly  in  their 
places  at  two  o'clock,  when  Mr,  Oldinport  and  Lady  Felicia, 
to  whom  Knebley  Church  was  a  sort  of  family  temple,  made 


78  SCENES   OP  CLEKICAL  LIFE. 

their  way  among  the  bows  and  courtesies  of  their  dependents 
to  a  carved  and  canopied  pew  in  the  chancel,  diffusing  as  they 
went  a  delicate  odor  of  Indian  roses  on  the  unsusceptible  nos- 
trils of  the  congregation. 

The  farmers'  wives  and  children  sat  on  the  dark  oaken 
benches,  but  the  husbands  usually  chose  the  distinctive  dig- 
nity of  a  stall  under  one  of  the  twelve  apostles,  where,  when 
the  alternation  of  prayers  and  responses  had  given  place  to 
the  agreeable  monotony  of  the  sermon,  Paterfamilias  might 
be  seen  or  heard  sinking  into  a  pleasant  doze,  from  which  he 
infallibly  woke  up  at  the  sound  of  the  concluding  doxology. 
And  then  they  made  their  way  back  again  through  the  miry 
lanes,  perhaps  almost  as  much  the  better  for  this  simple 
weekly  tribute  to  what  they  knew  of  good  and  right,  as  many 
a  more  wakeful  and  critical  congregation  of  the  present  day. 

Mr.  Gilfil,  too,  used  to  make  his  way  home  in  the  later  years 
of  his  life,  for  he  had  given  up  the  habit  of  dining  at  Knebley 
Abbey  on  a  Sunday,  having,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  had  a  very 
bitter  quarrel  with  Mr.  Oldinport,  the  cousin  and  predecessor 
of  the  Mr.  Oldinport  who  flourished  in  the  Rev.  Amos  Bar- 
ton's time.  That  quarrel  was  a  sad  pity,  for  the  two  had 
had  many  a  good  day's  hunting  together  when  they  were 
younger,  and  in  those  friendly  times  not  a  few  members  of 
the  hunt  envied  Mr.  Oldinport  the  excellent  terms  he  was  on 
with  his  vicar ;  for,  as  Sir  Jasper  Sitwell  observed,  "  next  to 
a  man's  wife,  there's  nobody  can  be  such  an  infernal  plague 
to  you  as  a  parson,  always  under  your  nose  on  your  own  es- 
tate." 

I  fancy  the  original  difference  which  led  to  the  rapture  was 
very  slight ;  but  Mr.  Gilfil  was  of  an  extremely  caustic  turn, 
his  satire  having  a  flavor  of  originality  which  was  quite  want- 
ing in  his  sermons ;  and  as  Mr.  Oldinport's  armor  of  conscious 
virtue  presented  some  considerable  and  conspicuous  gaps,  the 
Vicar's  keen-edged  retorts  probably  made  a  few  incisions  too 
deep  to  be  forgiven.  Such  at  least  was  the  view  of  the  case 
presented  by  Mr.  Hackit,  who  knew  as  much  of  the  matter 
as  any  third  person.  For,  the  very  week  after  the  quarrel, 
when  presiding  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Association  for 
the  Prosecution  of  Felons,  held  at  the  Oldinport  Arms,  he 
contributed  an  additional  zest  to  the  conviviality  on  that  oc- 
casion by  informing  the  company  that  "  the  parson  had  given 
the  squire  a  lick  with  the  rough  side  of  his  tongue."  The  de- 
tection of  the  person  or  persons  who  had  driven  off  Mr.  Par- 
rot's heifer,  could  hardly  have  been  more  welcome  news  to 
the  Shepperton  tenantry,  with  whom  Mr.  Oldinport  was  in  the 
worst  odor  as  a  landlord,  having  kept  up  his  rents  in  spito 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  79 

of  falling  prices,  and  not  being  in  the  least  stung  to  emulation 
by  paragraphs  in  the  provincial  newspapers,  stating  that  the 
Honorable  Augustus  Purwell,  or  Viscount  Blethers,  had  made 
a  return  of  ten  per  cent,  on  their  last  rent  day.  The  fact 
was,  Mr.  Oldiuport  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  standing 
for  Parliament,  whereas  he  had  the  strongest  intention  of 
adding  to  his  unentailed  estate.  Hence,  to  the  Shepperton 
farmers  it  was  as  good  as  lemon  with  their  grog  to  know  that 
the  vicar  had  thrown  out  sarcasms  against  the  Squire's  char- 
ities, as  little  better  than  those  of  the  man  who  stole  a  goose, 
and  gave  away  the  giblets  in  alms.  For  Shepperton,  you 
observe,  was  in  a  state  of  Attic  culture  compared  with  Kneb- 
ley ;  it  had  turnpike  roads  and  a  public  opinion,  whereas,  in 
the  Boeotian  Knebley,  men's  minds  and  wagons  alike  moved 
in  the  deepest  of  ruts,  and  the  landlord  was  only  grumbled 
at  as  a  necessary  and  unalterable  evil,  like  the  weather,  the 
weevils,  and  the  turnip-fly. 

Thus  in  Shepperton  this  breach  with  Mr.  Oldinport  tended 
only  to  heighten  that  good  understanding  which  the  Vicar 
had  always  enjoyed  with  the  rest  of  his  parishioners,  from  the 
generation  whose  children  he  had  christened  a  quarter  of  a 
century  before,  down  to  that  hopeful  generation  represented 
by  little  Tommy  Bond,  who  had  recently  quitted  frocks  and 
trowsers  for  the  severe  simplicity  of  a  tight  suit  of  corduroys, 
relieved  by  numerous  brass  buttons.  Tommy  was  a  saucy 
boy,  impervious  to  all  impressions  of  reverence,  and  excessive- 
ly addicted  to  humming-tops  and  marbles,  with  which  recrea- 
tive resources  he  was  in  the  habit  of  immoderately  distend- 
ing the  pockets  of  his  corduroys.  One  day,  spinning  his  top 
on  the  garden-walk,  and  seeing  the  Vicar  advance  directly  to- 
wards it,  at  that  exciting  moment  when  it  was  beginning  to 
"sleep"  magnificently,  he  shouted  out  with  all  the  force  of 
his  lungs — "  Stop  !  don't  knock  my  top  down,  now !"  From 
that  day  "little  Corduroys"  had  been  an  especial  favorite 
with  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  delighted  to  provoke  his  ready  scorn  and 
wonder  by  putting  questions  which  gave  Tommy  the  mean- 
est opinion  of  his  intellect. 

"  Well,  little  Corduroys,  have  they  milked  the  geese  to- 
day ?" 

"  Milked  the  geese  !  why,  they  don't  milk  the  geese,  you 
silly !" 

"  No !  dear  heart !  why,  how  do  the  goslings  live,  then  ?" 

The  nutriment  of  goslings  rather  transcending  Tommy's 
observations  in  natural  history,  he  feigned  to  understand  this 
question  in  an  exclamatory  rather  than  an  interrogatory  sense, 
and  became  absorbed  in  winding  up  his  top. 


BO  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Ah,  I  see  you  don't  know  how  the  goslings  live  !  But 
did  you  notice  how  it  rained  sugar-plums  yesterday  ?"  (Here 
Tommy  became  attentive.)  "  Why,  they  fell  into  my  pocket 
as  I  rode  along.  You  look  in  my  pocket  and  see  if  they 
didn't." 

Tommy,  without  waiting  to  discuss  the  alleged  antecedent} 
lost  no  time  in  ascertaining  the  presence  of  the  agreeable  con- 
sequent, for  he  had  a  well-founded  belief  in  the  advantages 
of  diving  into  the  Vicar's  pocket.  Mr.  Gilfil  called  it  his  won- 
derful pocket,  because,  as  he  delighted  to  tell  the  "  young 
shavers  "  and  "  two-shoes  " — so  he  called  all  little  boys  and 
girls — whenever  he  put  pennies  into  it,  they  turned  into  sugar- 
plums or  gingerbread,  or  some  other  nice  thing.  Indeed,  little 
Bessie  Parrot,  a  flaxen-headed  "  two-shoes,"  very  white  and 
fat  as  to  her  neck,  always  had  the  admirable  directness  and 
sincerity  to  salute  him  with  the  question — "  What  zoo  dot  in 
zoo  pottet  ?" 

You  can  imagine,  then,  that  the  christening  dinners  were 
none  the  less  merry  for  the  presence  of  the  parson.  The  farm- 
ers relished  his  society  particularly,  for  he  could  not  only 
smoke  his  pipe,  and  season  the  details  of  parish  affairs  with 
abundance  of  caustic  jokes  and  proverbs,  but,  as  Mr.  Bond 
often  said,  no  man  knew  more  than  the  Vicar  about  the  breed 
of  cows  and  horses.  He  had  grazing-land  of  his  own  about 
five  miles  off,  which  a  bailiff,  ostensibly  a  tenant,  farmed  under 
his  direction ;  and  to  ride  backward  and  forward,  and  look 
after  the  buying  and  selling  of  stcck,  was  the  old  gentleman's 
chief  relaxation,  now  his  hunting-days  were  over.  To  hear 
him  discussing  the  respective  merits  of  the  Devonshire  breed 
and  the  short-horns,  or  the  last  foolish  decision  of  the  magis- 
trates about  a  pauper,  a  superficial  observer  might  have  seen 
little  difference,  beyond  his  superior  shrewdness,  between  the 
Vicar  and  his  bucolic  parishioners ;  for  it  was  his  habit  to 
approximate  his  accent  and  mode  of  speech  to  theirs,  doubt- 
less because  he  thought  it  a  mere  frustration  of  the  purposes 
of  language  to  talk  of"  shear-hogs  "  and  "  ewes  "  to  men  who 
habitually  said  "  sharrags"  and  "  yowes."  Nevertheless  the 
farmers  themselves  were  perfectly  aware  of  the  distinction 
between  them  and  the  parson,  and  had  not  at  all  the  less 
belief  in  him  as  a  gentleman  and  a  clergyman  for  his  easy 
speech  and  familiar  manners.  Mrs.  Parrot  smoothed  her 
apron  and  set  her  cap  right  with  the  utmost  solicitude  when 
she  saw  the  Vicar  coming,  made  him  her  deepest  courtesy,  and 
every  Christmas  had  a  fat  turkey  ready  to  send  him  with  her 
"  duty."  And  in  the  most  gossiping  colloquies  with  Mr.  Gil- 
fil, you  might  have  observed  that  both  men  and  women 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  "81 

"minded  their^words^and  never  became  indifferent,  to  his 
approbation; 

The  same  respect  attended  him  in  his  strictly  clerical  func- 
tions. The  benefits  of  baptism  were  supposed  to  be  somehow 
bound  up  with  Mr.  GilfiTs  personality,  so  metaphysical  a  dis- 
tinction as  that  between  a  man  and  his  office  being,  as  yet, 
quite  foreign  to  the  mind  of  a  good  Shepperton  Churchman, 
savoring,  he  would  have  thought,  of  Dissent  on  the  very  face 
of  it.  Miss  Selina  Parrot  put  off  her  marriage  a  whole  month 
when  Mr.  Gilfil  had  an  attack  of  rheumatism,  rather  than  be 
married  in  a  makeshift  manner  by  the  Milby  curate. 

"  We've  had  a  very  good  sermon  this  morning,"  was  the 
frequent  remark,  after  hearing  one  of  the  old  yellow  series, 
heard  with  all  the  more  satisfaction  because  it  had  been  heard 
for  the  twentieth  time  ;  for  to  minds  on  the  Shepperton  level 
it  is  repetition,  not  novelty,  that  produces  the  strongest  effect, 
and  phrases,  like  tunes,  arc  a  long  time  making  themselves  at 
home  in' the  brain. 

Mr.  Gilfil's  sermons,  as  you  may  imagine,  Avcrc  not  of 
a  highly  doctrinal,  still  less  of  a  polemical,  cast  They  per- 
haps did  not  search  the  conscience  very  powerfully ;  for  you 
remember  that  to  Mrs.  Patten,  who  had  listened  to  them  thir- 
ty years,  the  announcement  that  she  was  a  sinner  appeared 
an  uncivil  heresy  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  they  made  no  un- 
reasonable demand  on  the  Shepperton  intellect — amounting, 
indeed,  to  little  more  than  an  expansion  of  the  concise  thesis, 
that  those  who  do  wrong  will  find  it  the  worse  for  them,  and 
those  who  do  well  will  find  it  the  better  for  them  ;  the  nature 
of  wrong-doing  being  exposed  in  special  sermons  against 
lying,  backbiting,  anger,  slothfulness,  and  the  like;  and  well- 
doing being  interpreted  as  honesty,  truthfulness,  charity,  in- 
dustry, and  other  common  virtues,  lying  quite  on  the  surface 
of  life,  and  having  very  little  to  do  with  deep  spiritual  doc- 
trine. Mrs.  Patten  understood  that  if  she  turned  out  ill- 
rrushed  cheeses,  a  just  retribution  awaited  her;  though, I 
fear,  she  made  no  particular  application  of  the  sermon  on 
backbiting.  Mrs.  Hackit  expressed  herself  greatly  edified  by 
the  sermon  on  honesty,  the  allusion  to  the  unjust  weight  and 
deceitful  balance  having  a  peculiar  lucidity  for  her,  owing  to 
a  recent  dispute  with  her  grocer ;  but  I  am  not  aware  that 
she  ever  appeared  to  be  much  struck  by  the  sermon  on  anger. 

As  to  any  suspicion  that  Mr.  Gilfil  did  not  dispense  the 
pure  Gospel,  or  any  strictures  on  his  doctrine  and  mode  of 
delivery,  such  thoughts  never  visited  the  minds  of  the  Shep. 
perton  parishioner — of  those  very  parishioners  who,  ten  or 
fifteen  years  later,  showed  themselves  extremely  critical  of 

4* 


82  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Mr.  Barton's  discourses  and  demeanor.  But  in  the  interim 
they  had  tasted  that  dangerous  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge 
— innovation,  which  is  well  known  to  open  the  eyes,  even  in 
an  uncomfortable  manner.  At  present  to  find  fault  with  the 
sermon  was  regarded  as  almost  equivalent  to  finding  fault 
with  religion  itself.  One  Sunday,  Mr.  Hackit's  nephew,  Mas- 
ter Tom  Stokes,  a  flippant  town  youth,  greatly  scandalized 
his  excellent  relatives  by  declaring  that  he  could  write  as 
good  a  sermon  as  Mr.  Gilfil's  ;  whereupon  Mr.  Hackit  sought 
to  reduce  the  presumptuous  youth  to  utter  confusion,  by  of- 
fering him  a  sovereign  if  he  would  fulfill  his  vaunt.  The  ser- 
mon was  written,  however ;  and  though  it  was  not  admitted 
to  be  anywhere  within  reach  of  Mr.  Gilfil's,  it  was  yet  so  as- 
tonishingly like  a  sermon,  having  a  text,  three  divisions,  and 
a  concluding  exhortation  beginning  "  And  now,  my  breth- 
ren," that  the  sovereign,  though  denied  formally,  was  be- 
stowed informally,  and  the  sermon  was  pronounced,  when 
Master  Stokes's  back  was  turned,  to  be  "  an  uncommon  cliv- 
er  thing." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Pickard,  indeed,  of  the  Independent  Meeting, 
had  stated,  in  a  sermon  preached  at  Rotherby,  for  the  reduc- 
tion of  a  debt  on  New  Zion,  built,  with  an  exuberance  of  faith 
and  a  deficiency  of  funds,  by  seceders  from  the  original  Zion, 
that  he  lived  in  a  parish  where  the  vicar  was  very  "  dark ;" 
and  in  the  prayers  he  addressed  to  his  own  congregation,  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  comprehensively  alluding  to  the  parish- 
ioners outside  the  chapel  walls,  as  those  who,  Gallio-like, 
"  cared  for  none  of  these  things."  But  I  need  hardly  say 
that  no  church-goer  ever  came  within  earshot  of  Mr.  Pickard. 

It  was  not  to  the  Shepperton  farmers  only  that  Mr.  Gilfil's 
society  was  acceptable ;  he  w as  a  welcome  guest  at  some  of 
the  best  houses  in  that  part  of  the  country.  Old  Sir  Jasper 
Sitwell  would  have  been  glad  to  see  him  every  week;  and 
if  you  had  seen  him  conducting  Lady  Sitwell  in  to  dinner,  or 
had  heard  him  talking  to  her  with  quaint  yet  graceful  gal- 
lantry, you  would  have  inferred  that  the  earlier  period  of  his 
life  had  been  past  in  more  stately  society  than  could  be  found 
in  Shepperton,  and  that  his  slipshod  chat  and  homely  man- 
ners were  but  like  weather-stains  on  a  fine  old  block  of  mar- 
ble, allowing  you  still  to  see  here  and  there  the  fineness  of 
the  grain,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  original  tint.  But  in  his 
later  years  these  visits  became  a  little  too  troublesome  to 
the  old  gentleman,  and  he  was  rarely  to  be  found  anywhere 
of  an  evening  beyond  the  bounds  of  his  own  parish — most 
frequently,  indeed,  by  the  side  of  his  own  sitting-room  fire, 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  maintaining  the  pleasing  antithesis  of 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  83 

dryuess  and  moisture  by  an  occasional  sip  of  gin-and-wa- 
ter. 

Here  I  am  aware  that  I  have  run  the  risk  of  alienating  all 
ray  refined  lady-readers,  and  utterly  annihilating  any  curios- 
ity they  may  have  felt  to  know  the  details  of  Mr.  Giltil's  love- 
story.  "  Gin-and-water  !  foh  !  you  may  as  well  ask  us  to  in- 
terest ourselves  in  the  romance  of  a  tallow-chandler,  who  min- 
gles the  image  of  his  beloved  with  short  dips  and  moulds." 

But  in  the  first  place,  dear  ladies,  allow  me  to  plead  that 
gin-and-water,  like  obesity,  or  baldness,  or  the  gout,  does  not 
exclude  a  vast  amount  of  antecedent  romance,  any  more 
than  the  neatly-executed  "  fronts  "  which  you  may  some  day 
wear,  will  exclude  your  present  possession  of  less  expensive 
braids.  Alas,  alas !  we  poor  mortals  are  often  little  better 
than  wood-ashes — there  is  small  sign  of  the  sap,  and  the  leafy 
freshness,  and  the  bursting  buds  that  were  once  there ;  but 
wherever  we  see  wood-ashes,  we  know  that  all  that  early 
fullness  of  life  must  have  been.  I,  at  least,  hardly  ever  look 
at  a  bent  old  man,  or  a  wizened  old  woman,  but  I  see  also, 
with  my  mind's  eye,  that  Past  of  which  they  are  the  shrunk- 
en remnant,  and  the  unfinished  romance  of  rosy  cheeks  and 
bright  eyes  seems  sometimes  of  feeble  interest  and  significance, 
compared  with  that  drama  of  hope  and  love  which  has  long 
ago  reached  its  catastrophe,  and  left  the  poor  soul,  like  a  dim 
and  dusty  stage,  with  all  its  sweet  garden-scenes  and  fair 
perspectives  overturned  and  thrust  out  of  sight. 

In  the  second  place,  let  me  assure  you  that  Mr.  Gilfil's  po- 
tations of  gin-and-water  were  quite  moderate.  His  nose  was 
not  rubicund ;  on  the  contrary,  his  white  hair  hung  around 
a  pale  and  venerable  face.  He  drank  it  chiefly,  I  believe,  be- 
cause it  was  cheap :  and  here  I  find  myself  alighting  on  an- 
other of  the  Vicar's  weaknesses,  which,  if  I  had  cared  to 
paint  a  flattering  portrait  rather  than  a  faithful  one,  I  might 
have  chosen  to  suppress.  It  is  undeniable  that,  as  the  years 
advanced,  Mr.  Gilfil  became,  as  Mr.  Hackit  observed,  more 
and  more  "close-fisted,",  though  the  growing  propensity 
showed  itself  rather  in  the  parsimony  of  his  personal  habits, 
chan  in  withholding  help  from  the  needy.  lie  was  saving — 
10  he  represented  the  matter  to  himself — for  a  nephew,  the 
only  son  of  a  sister  who  had  been  the  dearest  object,  all  but 
one,  in  his  life.  "  The  lad,"  he  thought,  "  will  have  a  nice 
little  fortune  to  begin  life  with,  and  will  bring  his  pretty 
young  wife  some  day  to  see  the  spot  where  his  old  uncle 
lies.  It  will  perhaps  be  all  the  better  for  his  hearth  that 
mine  was  lonely." 

Mr.  Gilfil  was  a  bachelor,  then  ? 


fc4  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

That  is  the  conclusion  to  which  you  would  probably 
have  come  if  you  had  entered  his  sitting-room,  where  the 
bare  tables,  the  large  old-fashioned  horse-hair  chairs,  and  the 
threadbare  Turkey  carpet,  perpetually  fumigated  with  tobac- 
co, seemed  to  tell  a  story  of  wifeless  existence  that  was  con- 
tradicted by  no  portrait,  no  piece  of  embroidery,  no  faded  bit 
of  pretty  triviality,  hinting  of  taper-fingers  and  small  femi- 
nine ambitions.  And  it  was  here  that  Mr.  Gilfil  passed  his 
evenings,  seldom  with  other  society  than  that  of  Ponto,  his 
old  brown  setter,  who,  stretched  out  at  full  length  on  the  rug 
with  his  nose  between  his  fore  paws,  would  wrinkle  his  brows 
and  lift  up  his  eyelids  every  now  and  then,  to  exchange  a 
glance  of  mutual  understanding  with  his  master.  But  there 
was  a  chamber  in  Shepperton  Vicarage  which  told  a  differ- 
ent story  from  that  bare  and  cheerless  dining-room — a  cham- 
ber never  entered  by  any  one  besides  Mr.  Gilfil  and  old  Mar- 
tha the  housekeeper,  who,  with  David  her  husband  as  groom 
and  gardener,  formed  the  Vicar's  entire  establishment.  The 
blinds  of  this  chamber  were  always  down,  except  once  a 
quarter,  when  Martha  entered  that  she  might  air  and  clean 
it.  She  always  asked  Mr.  Gilfil  for  the  key,  which  he  kept 
locked  up  in  his  bureau,  and  returned  it  to  him  when  she  had 
finished  her  task. 

It  was  a  touching  sight  that  the  daylight  streamed  in 
upon,  as  Martha  drew  aside  the  blinds  and  thick  curtains, 
and  opened  the  Gothic  casement  of  the  oriole  window!  On 
the  little  dressing-table  there  was  a  dainty  looking-glass  in  a 
carved  and  gilt  frame ;  bits  of  wax-candle  were  still  in  the 
branched  sockets  at  the  sides,  and  on  one  of  these  branches 
hung  a  little  black  lace  kerchief;  a  faded  satin  pin-cushion, 
with  the  pins  rusted  in  it,  a  scent-bottle,  and  a  large  green 
fan,  lay  on  the  table ;  and  on  a  dressing-box  by  the  side  of 
the  glass  was  a  work-basket,  and  an  unfinished  baby-cap, 
yellow  with  age,  lying  in  it.  Two  gowns,  of  a  fashion  long 
forgotten,  were  hanging  on  nails  against  the  door,  and  a  pair 
of  tiny  red  slippers,  with  a  bit  of  tarnished  silver  embroidery 
on  them,  were  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Two  or  three 
water-color  drawings,  views  of  Naples,  hung  upon  the  walls ; 
and  over  the  mantel-piece,  above  some  bits  of  rare  old  china, 
two  miniatures  in  oval  frames.  One  of  these  miniatures  rep- 
resented a  young  man  about  seven-and-twenty,  with  a  san- 
guine complexion,  full  lips,  and  clear,  candid  gray  eyes.  The 
other  was  the  likeness  of  a  girl  probably  not  more  than  eight- 
een, with  small  features,  thin  cheeks,  a  pale,  southern-looking 
complexion,  and  large  dark  eyes.  The  gentleman  wore  pow- 
der; the  lady  had  her  dark  h^ir  gathered  away  fron>  her 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  85 

face,  and  a  little  cap,  with  a  cherry-colored  bow,  set  on  the 
top  of  her  head — a  coquettish  head-dress,  but  the  eyes  spoke 
of  sadness  rather  than  of  coquetry. 

Such  were  the  things  that  Martha  had  dusted  and  let  the 
air  upon  four  times  a-year,  ever  since  she  was  a  blooming  lass 
of  twenty ;  and  she  was  now,  in  this  last  decade  of  Mr.  GilhTs 
life,  unquestionably  on  the  wrong  side  of  fifty.  Such  was  the 
locked-up  chamber  in  Mr.  GilhTs  house :  a  sort  of  visible 
$  symbol  of  the  secret  chamber  in  his  heart,  where  he  had  long 
turned  the  key  on  early  hopes  and  early  sorrows,  shutting 
up  for  ever  all  the  passion  and  the  poetry  of  his  life. 

There  were  not  many  people  in  the  parish,  besides  Martha, 
who  had  any  very  distinct  remembrance  of  Mr.  Gilfil's  wife, 
or  indeed  who  knew  any  thing  of  her,  beyond  the  fact  that 
there  was  a  marble  tablet,  with  a  Latin  inscription  in  mem- 
ory of  her,  over  the  vicarage  pew.  The  parishioners  who 
were  old  enough  to  remember  her  arrival  were  not  generally 
gifted  with  descriptive  powers,  and  the  utmost  you  could 
gather  from  them  was,  that  Mrs.  Gilfil  looked  like  a  "  furrin- 
er,  wi'  such  eyes,  you  can't  think,  an'  a  voice  as  went  through 
you  when  she  sung  at  church."  The  one  exception  was  Mrs. 
Fatten,  whose  strong  memory  and  taste  for  personal  narra- 
tive made  her  a  great  source  of  oral  tradition  in  Shepperton. 
Mr,  Hackit,  who  had  not  come  into  the  parish  until  ten  years 
after  Mrs.  Gilfil's  death,  would  often  put  old  questions  to 
Mrs.  Patten  for  the  sake  of  getting  the  old  answers,  which 
pleased  him  in  the  same  way  as  passages  from  a  favorite 
book,  or  the  scenes  of  a  familiar  play,  please  more  accom- 
plished people. 

"Ah,  you  remember  well  the  Sunday  as  Mrs.  Gilfil  first 
come  to  church,  eh,  Mrs.  Patten  ?" 

"To  be  sure  I  do.  It  was  a  fine  bright  Sunday  as  ever 
was  seen,  just  at  the  beginnin'  o'  hay  harvest.  Mr.  Tarbett 
preached  that  day,  and  Sir.  Gilfil  sat  i'  the  pew  with  his  wife. 
I  think  I  see  him  now,  a-leading  her  up  the  aisle,  an'  her  head 
not  reachin'  much  above  his  elber :  a  little  pale  woman,  with 
eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  an'  yet  lookin'  blank-like,  as  if  she 
see'd  nothing  with  'em." 

"  I  warrant  she  had  her  weddin'  clothes  on  ?"  said  Mr. 
Hackit. 

"  Nothin'  partickler  smart — on'y  a  white  hat  tied  down 
under  her  chin,  an'  a  white  Indy  muslin  gown.  But  you 
don't  know  what  Mr.  Gilfil  was  in  those  times.  He  was  fine 
an'  altered  before  you  come  into  the  parish.  He'd  a  fresh 
color  then,  an'  a  bright  look  wi'  his  eyes,  as  did  your  heart 
good  to  see.  He  looked  rare  and  happy  that  Sunday ;  but 


86  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

somehow,  I'd  a  feelin'  as  it  wouldn't  last  long.  I've  no  opin- 
ion o'  furriners,  Mr.  Hackit,  for  I've  travelled  i'  their  country 
with  my  lady  in  my  time,  an'  seen  enough  o'  their  victuals 
an'  their  nasty  ways." 

"Mrs.  Gilfil  come  from  It'ly,  didn't  she?" 

"  I  reckon  she  did,  but  I  uiver  could  rightly  hear  about 
that.  Mr.  Giltil  was  niver  to  be  spoke  to  about  her,  and  no- 
body else  hereabout  knowed  any  thin'.  Howiver,  she  must 
ha'  come  over  pretty  young,  for  she  spoke  English  as  well  as 
you  an'  me.  It's  them  Italians  as  has  such  fine  voices,  an' 
Mrs.  Gilfil  sung,  you  never  beared  the  like.  He  brought  her 
here  to  have  tea  with  me  one  afternoon,  and  says  he,  in  his 
jovial  way,  '  Now,  Mrs.  Patten,  I  want  Mrs.  Giltil  to  see  the 
neatest  house,  and  drink  the  best  cup  o'  tea,  in  all  Shepper- 
ton ;  you  must  show  her  your  dairy  and  your  cheese-room, 
and  then  she  shall  sing  you  a  song.'  An'  so  she  did  ;  an'  her 
voice  seemed  sometimes  to  fill  the  room;  an'  then  it  went 
low  an'  soft,  as  if  it  was  whisperin'  close  to  your  heart  like." 

"  You  never  beared  her  again,  I  reckon  ?" 

"  No ;  she  was  sickly  then,  and  she  died  in  a  few  months 
after.  She  wasn't  in  the  parish  much  more  nor  half  a  year 
altogether  She  didn't  seem  lively  that  afternoon,  an'  I  could 
see  she  didn't  care  about  the  dairy,  nor  the  cheeses,  on'y  she 
pretended,  to  please  him.  As  for  him,  I  never  see'd  a  man  so 
wrapt  up  in  a  woman.  He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  was  wor- 
shippin'  her,  an'  as  if  he  wanted  to  lift  her  off  the  ground  ivery 
minute  to  save  her  the  trouble  o'  walkin'.  Poor  man,  poor 
man  !  It  had  like  to  ha'  killed  him  when  she  died,  though 
he  niver  gev  way,  but  went  on  ridin'  about  and  preachin'. 
But  he  was  wore  to  a  shadow,  an'  his  eyes  used  to  look  as 
dead — you  wouldn't  ha'  knowed  'em." 

"  She  brought  him  no  fortin  ?" 

"Not  she.  All  Mr.  GilfiPs  property  come  by  his  mother's 
side.  There  was  blood  an'  money  too,  there.  It's  a  thousand 
pities  as  he  married  i'  that  way — a  fine  man  like  him,  as 
might  ha'  had  the  pick  o'  the  county,  an'  had  his  grandchil- 
dren about  him  now.  An'  him  so  fond  o'  children,  too." 

In  this  manner  Mrs.  Patten  usually  wound  up  her  reminis- 
cences of  the  Vicar's  wife,  of  whom,  you  perceive,  she  knew 
but  little.  It  was  clear  that  the  communicative  old  lady 
had  nothing  to  tell  of  Mrs.  Gilfil's  history  previous  to  her  ar- 
rival in  Shepperton,  and  that  she  was  unacquainted  with 
Mr.  Gilfil's  love-story. 

But  I,  dear  reader,  am  quite  as  communicative  as  Mrs. 
Patten,  and  much  better  informed ;  so  that,  if  you  care  to 
know  more  about  the  Vicar's  courtship  and  marriage,  you 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  87 

need  only  carry  your  imagination  back  to  the  latter  end  of 
the  last  century,  and  your  attention  forward  into  the  next 
chapter. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  is  the  evening  of  the  21st  of  June,  1788.  The  day  has 
been  bright  and  sultry,  and  the  sun  will  still  be  more  than 
an  hour  above  the  horizon,  but  his  rays,  broken  by  the  leafy 
fretwork  of  the  elms  that  border  the  park,  no  longer  prevent 
two  ladies  from  carrying  out  their  cushions  and  embroidery, 
and  seating  themselves  to  work  on  the  lawn  in  front  of 
Cheverel  Manor.  The  soft  turf  gives  way  even  under  the 
fairy  tread  of  the  younger  lady,  whose  small  stature  and 
slim  figure  rest  on  the  tiniest  of  full-grown  feet.  She  trips 
along  before  the  elder,  carrying  the  cushions,  which  she 
places  in  the  favorite  spot,  just  on  the  slope  by  a  clump  of 
laurels,  where  they  can  see  the  sunbeams  sparkling  among 
the  water-lilies,  and  can  be  themselves  seen  from  the  dining- 
room  windows.  She  has  deposited  the  cushions,  and  now 
turns  round,  so  that  you  may  have  a  full  view  of  her  as  she 
stands  waiting  the  slower  advance  of  the  elder  lady.  You  are 
at  once  arrested  by  her  large  dark  eyes,  which,  in  their  inex- 
pressive, unconscious  beauty,  resemble  the  eyes  of  a  fawn, 
and  it  is  only  by  an  effort  of  attention  that  you  notice  the 
absence  of  bloom  on  her  young  cheek,  and  the  southern  yel- 
lowish tint  of  her  small  neck  and  face,  rising  above  the  little 
black  lace  kerchief  which  pi-events  the  too  immediate  com- 
parison of  her  skin  with  her  white  muslin  gown.  Her  large 
eyes  seem  all  the  more  striking  because  the  dark  hair  is 
gathered  away  from  her  face,  under  a  little  cap  set  at  the 
top  of  her  head,  with  a  cherry-colored  bow  on  one  side. 

The  elder  lady,  who  is  advancing  towards  the  cushions, 
is  cast  in  a  very  different  mould  of  womanhood.  She  is  tall, 
and  looks  the  taller  because  her  powdered  hair  is  turned 
backward  over  a  toupee,  and  surmounted  by  lace  and  ribbons. 
She  is  nearly  fifty,  but  her  complexion  is  still  fresh  and  beau- 
tiful, with  the  beauty  of  an  auburn  blonde;  her  proud  pout- 
ing lips,  and  her  head  thrown  a  little  backward  as  she  walks, 
give  an  expression  of  hauteur  which  is  not  contradicted  by 
the  cold  gray  eye.  The  tucked-in  kerchief,  rising  full  over 
the  low  tight  boddice  of  her  blue  dress,  sets  off  the  majestic 
form  of  her  bust,  and  she  treads  the  lawn  as  if  she  were  one 
of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  stately  ladies,  who  had  suddenly 
stepped  from  her  frame  to  enjoy  the  evening  cool. 


'  Just  on  the  slope  by  a  clump  of  laurels,  where  they  can  see  the  sunbeam..* 
sparkling  among  the  water-lilies." — PAGE  87. 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  89 

"  Put  the  cushions  lower,  Caterina,  that  we  may  not  have 
so  much  sun  upon  us,"  she  called  out,  in  a  tone  of  authority, 
when  still  at  some  distance. 

Caterina  obeyed,  and  they  sat  down,  making  two  bright 
patches  of  red  and  white  and  blue  on  the  green  background 
of  the  laurels  and  the  lawn,  which  would  look  none  the  less 
pretty  in  a  picture  because  one  of  the  women's  hearts  was 
Tcather  cold  and  the  other  rather  sad. 

And  a  charming  picture  Cheverel  Manor  would  have 
made  that  evening,  if  some  English  Watteau  had  been  there 
to  paint  it:  the  castellated  house  of  gray-tinted  stone,  with 
the  flickering  sunbeams  sending  dashes  of  golden  light  across 
the  many-shaped  panes  in  the  mullioned  windows,  and  a  great 
beech  leaning  athwart  one  of  the  flanking  towers,  and  break- 
ing, with  its  dark  flattened  boughs,  the  too  formal  symmetry 
of  the  front ;  the  broad  gravel-walk  winding  on  the  right, 
by  a  row  of  tall  pines,  alongside  the  pool  —  on  the  left 
branching  out  among  swelling  grassy  mounds,  surmounted 
by  clumps  of  trees,  where  the  red  trunk  of  the  Scotch  fir 
glows  in  the  descending  sunlight  against  the  bright  green 
of  limes  and  acacias ;  the  great  pool,  where  a  pair  of  swans 
are  swimming  lazily  with  one  leg  tucked  under  a  wing,  and 
where  the  open  water-lilies  lie  calmly  accepting  the  kisses 
of  the  fluttering  light-sparkles;  the  lawn,  with  its  smooth 
emerald  greenness,  sloping  down  to  the  rougher  and  browner 
herbage  of  the  park,  from  which  it  is  invisibly  fenced  by  a 
little  stream  that  winds  away  from  the  pool,  and  disappears 
under  a  wooden  bridge  in  the  distant  pleasure-ground ;  and 
on  this  lawn  our  two  ladies,  whose  part  in  the  landscape  the 
painter,  standing  at  a  favorable  point  of  view  in  the  park, 
would  represent  with  a  few  little  dabs  of  red  and  white  and 
blue. 

Seen  from  the  great  Gothic  windows  of  the  dining-room, 
they  had  much  more  definiteness  of  outline,  and  were  dis- 
tinctly visible  to  the  three  gentlemen  sipping  their  claret 
there,  as  two  fair  women  in  whom  all  three  had  a  personal 
interest.  These  gentlemen  were  a  group  worth  considering 
attentively ;  but  any  one  entering  that  dining-room  for  the 
first  time,  would  perhaps  have  had  his  attention  even  more 
strongly  arrested  by  the  room  itself,  which  was  so  bare  of 
furniture  that  it  impressed  one  with  its  architectural  beauty 
like  a  cathedral.  A  piece  of  matting  stretched  from  door  to 
door,  a  bit  of  worn  carpet  under  the  dining-table,  and  a  side- 
board in  a  deep  recess,  did  not  detain  the  eye  for  a  moment 
from  the  lofty  groined  ceiling,  with  its  richly-carved  pendants, 
all  of  creamy  white,  relieved  here  and  there  by  touches  of 


90  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

gold.  On  one  side,  this  lofty  ceiling  was  supported  by  pil- 
lars and  arches,  beyond  which  a  lower  ceiling,  a  miniature 
copy  of  the  higher  one,  covered  the  square  projection  which, 
with  its  three  large  pointed  windows,  formed  the  central  fea- 
ture of  the  building.  The  room  looked  less  like  a  place  to 
dine  in  than  a  piece  of  space  enclosed  simply  for  the  sake  of 
beautiful  outline ;  and  the  small  dining-table,  with  the  party 
round  it,  seemed  an  odd  and  insignificant  accident,  rather 
than  any  thing  connected  with  the  original  purpose  of  the 
apartment. 

But,  examined  closely,  that  group  was  far  from  insignifi- 
cant ;  for  the  eldest,  who  was  reading  in  the  newspaper  the 
last  portentous  proceedings  of  the  French  parliaments,  and 
turning  with  occasional  comments  to  his  young  companions, 
was  as  fine  a  specimen  of  the  old  English  gentleman  as  could 
well  have  been  found  in  those  venei*able  days  of  cocked-hats 
and  pigtails.  His  dark  eyes  sparkled  under  projecting  brows, 
made  more  prominent  by  bushy  grizzled  eyebrows  ;  but  any 
apprehension  of  severity  excited  by  these  penetrating  eyes, 
and  by  a  somewhat  aquiline  nose,  was  allayed  by  the  good- 
natured  lines  about  the  mouth,  which  retained  all  its  teeth 
and  its  vigor  of  expression  in  spite  of  sixty  winters.  The 
forehead  sloped  a  little  from  the  projecting  brows,  and  its 
peaked  outline  was  made  conspicuous  by  the  arrangement  of 
the  profusely-powdered  hair,  drawn  backward  and  gathered 
into  a  pigtail.  He  sat  in  a  small  hard  chair,  which  did  not 
admit  the  slightest  approach  to  a  lounge,  and  which  showed 
to  advantage  the  flatness  of  his  back  and  the  breadth  of  his 
chest.  In  fact,  Sir  Christopher  Cheverel  was  a  splendid  old 
gentleman,  as  any  one  may  see  who  enters  the  saloon  at  Chev- 
erel Manor,  where  his  full-length  portrait,  taken  when  he  was 
fifty,  hangs  side  by  side  with  that  of  his  wife,  the  stately  lady 
seated  on  the  lawn. 

Looking  at  Sir  Christopher,  you  would  at  once  have  been 
inclined  to  hope  that  he  had  a  full-grown  son  and  heir ;  but 
perhaps  you  would  have  wished  that  it  might  not  prove  to 
be  the  young  man  on  his  right  hand,  in  whom  a  certain  re- 
semblance to  the  Baronet,  in  the  contour  of  the  nose  and  brow, 
seemed  to  indicate  a  family  relationship.  If  this  young  man 
had  been  less  elegant  in  his  person,  he  would  have  been  re- 
marked for  the  elegance  of  his  dress.  But  the  perfections  of 
his  slim,  well-proportioned  figure  were  so  striking  that  no  one 
but  a  tailor  could  notice  the  perfections  of  his  velvet  coat ; 
and  his  small  white  hands,  with  their  blue  veins  and  taper 
fingers,  quite  eclipsed  the  beauty  of  his  lace  ruffles.  The  face, 
however — it  was  difficult  to  say  why — was  certainly  not 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  91 

pleasing.  Nothing  could  be  more  delicate  than  the  blond 
complexion — its  bloom  set  off  by  the  powdered  hair — than 
the  veined  over  hanging  eyelids,  which  gave  an  indolent  ex- 
pression to  the  hazel  eyes ;  nothing  more  finely  cut  than  the 
transparent  nostril  and  the  short  upper-lip.  Perhaps  the  chin 
and  lower  jaw  were  too  small  for  an  irreproachable  profile, 
but  the  defect  was  on  the  side  of  that  delicacy  and  finesse 
which  was  the  distinctive  characteristic  of  the  whole  person, 
and  which  was  carried  out  in  the  clear  brown  arch  of  the  eye- 
brows, and  the  marble  smoothness  of  the  sloping  forehead. 
Impossible  to  say  that  this  face  was  not  eminently  handsome ; 
yet,  for  the  majority  both  of  men  and  women,  it  was  destitute 
of  charm.  Women  disliked  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  indolent- 
ly accepting  admiration  instead  of  rendering  it ;  and  men,  es- 
pecially if  they  had  a  tendency  to  clumsiness  in  the  nose  and 
ankles,  were  inclined  to  think  this  Antinous  in  a  pigtail  a 
"  confounded  puppy."  I  fancy  that  was  frequently  the  in- 
ward interjection  of  the  Rev.  Maynard  Gilfil,  who  was  seated 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  dining-table,  though  Mr.  GilfiPs  legs 
and  profile  were  not  at  all  of  a  kind  to  make  him  peculiarly 
alive  to  the  impertinence  and  frivolity  of  personal  advantages. 
His  healthy,  open  face  and  robust  limbs  were  after  an  excel- 
lent pattern  for  everyday  wear,  and,  in  the  opinion  of  Mr. 
Bates,  the  north-country  gardener,  would  have  become  regi- 
mentals "  a  fain  saight "  better  than  the  "  peaky  "  features 
and  slight  form  of  Captain  Wybrow,  notwithstanding  that  this 
young  gentleman,  as  Sir  Christopher's  nephew  and  destined 
heir,  had  the  strongest  hereditary  claim  on  the  gardener's 
respect,  and  was  undeniably  "  clean-limbed."  But  alas  !  hu- 
man longings  are  perversely  obstinate  ;  and  to  the  man  whose 
mouth  is  watering  for  a  peach,  it  is  of  no  use  to  offer  the 
largest  vegetable  marrow.  Mr.  Gilfil  was  not  sensitive  to 
Mr.  Bates's  opinion,  whereas  he  was  sensitive  to  the  opinion 
of  another  person,  who  by  no  means  shared  Mr.  Bates's  pref- 
erence. 

Who  the  other  person  was  it  would  not  have  required  a 
very  keen  observer  to  guess,  from  a  certain  eagerness  in  Mr. 
GilfiTs  glance  as  that  little  figure  in  white  tripped  along  the 
lawn  with  the  cushions.  Captain  Wybrow,  too,  was  looking 
in  the  same  direction,  but  his  handsome  face  remained  hand- 
some— and  nothing  more. 

"  Ah,"  said  Sir  Christopher,  looking  up  from  his  paper, 
"  there's  my  lady.  Ring  for  coffee,  Anthony ;  we'll  go  and 
join  her,  and  the  little  monkey  Tina  shall  give  us  a  song." 

The  coffee  presently  appeared,  brought — not  as  usual  by 
the  footman,  in  scarlet  and  drab,  but — by  the  old  butler,  in 


92  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

threadbare  but  well-brushed  black,  who,  as  he  was  placing  it 
on  the  table  said — 

"  If  you  please,  Sir  Christopher,  there's  the  widow  Hartopp 
a-crying  i'  the  still  room,  and  begs  leave  to  see  your  honor." 

"  I  have  given  Markham  full  orders  about  the  widow  Har- 
topp," said  Sir  Christopher,  in  a  sharp  decided  tone.  "  I  have 
nothing  to  say  to  her." 

"  Your  honor,"  pleaded  the  butler,  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
putting  on  an  additional  coating  of  humility,  "  the  poor  wom- 
an's dreadful  overcome,  and  says  she  can't  sleep  a  wink  this 
blessed  night  without  seeing  your  honor,  and  she  begs  you  to 
pardon  the  great  freedom  she's  took  to  come  at  this  time. 
She  cries  fit  to  break  her  heart." 

"  Ay,  ay ;  water  pays  no  tax.  Well,  show  her  into  the 
library." 

Coffee  dispatched,  the  two  young  men  walked  out  through 
the  open  window,  and  joined  the  ladies  on  the  lawn,  while  Sir 
Christopher  made  his  way  to  the  library,  solemnly  followed 
by  Rupert,  his  pet  bloodhound,  who,  in  his  habitual  place  at 
the  Baronet's  right  hand,  behaved  with  great  urbanity  during 
dinner ;  but  when  the  cloth  was  drawn,  invariably  disappear- 
ed under  the  table,  apparently  regarding  the  claret-jug  as  ;i 
mere  human  weakness,  which  he  winked  at  but  refused  to 
sanction. 

The  library  lay  but  three  steps  from  the  dining-room,  on 
the  other  side  of  a  cloistered  and  matted  passage.  The  oriel 
window  was  overshadowed  by  the  great  beech,  and  this,  with 
the  flat,  heavily-carved  ceiling  and  the  dark  hue  of  the  old 
books  that  lined  the  walls,  made  the  room  look  sombre,  es- 
pecially on  entering  it  from  the  dining-room,  with  its  aerial 
curves  and  cream-colored  fretwork  touched  with  gold.  As 
Sir  Christopher  opened  the  door,  a  jet  of  brighter  light  fell  on 
a  woman  in  a  widow's  dress,  wrho  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  made  the  deepest  of  courtesies  as  he  entered.  She 
was  a  buxom  woman  approaching  forty,  her  eyes  red  with  the 
tears  which  had  evidently  been  absorbed  by  the  handker- 
chief gathered  into  a  damp  ball  in  her  right  hand. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Hartopp,"  said  Sir  Christopher,  taking  out  his 
gold  snuff-box  and  tapping  the  lid, "what  have  you  to  say 
to  me  ?  Markham  has  delivered  you  a  notice  to  quit,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"  Oh  yis,  your  honor,  an'  that's  the  reason  why  I've  come. 
I  hope  your  honor'll  think  better  on  it,  an'  not  turn  me  an' 
my  poor  children  out  o'  the  farm,  where  my  husband  al'ys 
paid  his  rent  as  reglar  as  the  day  come." 

"  Nonsense !  I  should  like  to  know  what  good  it  will  do 


ME.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  93 

you  and  your  children  to  stay  on  a  farm  and  lose  every  far- 
thing your  husband  has  left  you,  instead  of  selling  your  stock 
and  going  into  s:>me  little  place  where  you  can  keep  your 
money  together.  It  is  very  well  known  to  every  tenant  of 
mine  that  I  never  allow  widows  to  stay  on  their  husbands' 
farms." 

"  Oh,  Sir  Christifer,  if  you  would  consider — when  I've  sold 
the  hay,  an'  corn,  an'  all  the  live  things,  an'  paid  the  debts, 
an'  put  the  money  out  to  use,  I  shall  have  hardly  enough  to 
keep  our  souls  an'  bodies  together.  An'  how  can  I  rear  my 
boys  and  put  'em  'prentice  ?  They  must  go  for  day-laborers, 
an'  their  father  a  man  wi'  as  good  belongings  as  any  on  your 
honor's  estate,  an'  niver  threshed  his  wheat  afore  it  was  well 
i'  the  rick,  nor  sold  the  straw  oft'  his  farm,  nor  nothin'.  Ask 
all  the  farmers  round  if  there  was  a  stiddier,  soberer  man  than 
my  husband  as  attended  Ripstone  market.  An'  he  says, 
4  Bessie,'  says  he — them  was  his  last  words — '  you'll  mek  a 
shift  to  manage  the  farm,  if  Sir  Christifer  'ull  let  you  stay  on.' ' 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !"  said  Sir  Christopher,  Mrs.  Hartopp's  sobs 
having  interrupted  her  pleadings,  "  now  listen  to  me,  and  try 
to  understand  a  little  common-sense.  You  are  about  as  able 
to  manage  the  farm  as  your  best  milch  cow.  You'll  be  ob- 
liged to  have  some  managing  man,  who  will  either  cheat  you 
out  of  your  money  or  wheedle  you  into  marrying  him." 

""Oh,  your  honor,  I  was  never  that  sort  o'  woman,  an'  no- 
body has  known  it  on  me." 

"  Very  likely  not,  because  you  were  never  a  wido\v  before. 
A  woman's  always  silly  enough,  but  she's  never  quite  as  great 
a  fool  as  she  can  be  until  she  puts  on  a  widow's  cap.  Now, 
just  ask  yourself  how  much  the  better  you  will  be  for  stay- 
ing on  your  farm  at  the  end  of  four  years,  when  you've  got 
through  your  money,  and  let  your  farm  run  down,  and  are  in 
arrears  for  half  your  rent ;  or,  perhaps,  have  got  some  great 
hulky  fellow  for  a  husband,  who  swears  at  you  and  kicks  your 
children." 

"  Indeed,  Sir  Christifer,  I  know  a  deal  o'  farmin',  an'  was 
brought  up  i'  the  thick  on  it,  as  you  may  say.  An'  there  was 
my  husband's  great-aunt  managed  a  farm  for  twenty  year,  an' 
left  legacies  to  all  her  nephys  an'  nieces,  an'  even  to  my  hus- 
band, as  was  then  a  babe  unborn." 

"  Psha  !  a  woman  six  feet  high,  with  a  squint  and  sharp  el' 
bows,  I  dare  say — a  man  in  petticoats.  Not  a  rosy-cheeked 
widow  like  you,  Mrs.  Hartopp." 

"  Indeed,  your  honor,  I  never  heard  of  her  squintin',  an'  they 
said  as  she  might  ha'  been  married  o'er  and  o'er  again,  to  peo* 
pie  as  had  no  call  to  hanker  after  her  money." 


94  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

"  Ay,  ay,  that's  what  you  all  think.  Every  man  that  looks 
at  you  wants  to  marry  you,  and  would  like  you  the  better  the 
more  children  you  have  and  the  less  money.  But  it  is  useless 
to  talk  and  cry.  I  have  good  reasons  for  my  plans,  and  never 
alter  them.  What  you  have  to  do  is  to  make  the  best  of 
your  stock,  and  to  look  out  for  some  little  place  to  go  to,  when 
you  leave  the  Hollows.  Now,  go  back  to  Mrs.  Bellamy's 
room,  and  ask  her  to  give  you  a  dish  of  tea." 

Mrs.  Hartopp,  understanding  from  Sir  Christopher's  tone 
'that  he  was  not  to  be  shaken,  courtesied  low  and  left  the  li- 
brary, while  the  Baronet,  seating  himself  at  his  desk  in  the 
oriel  window,  wrote  the  following  letter : 

"  MB.  MARKHAM, — Take  no  steps  about  letting  Crowsfoot 
Cottage,  as  I  intend  to  put  in  the  widow  Hartopp  when  she 
leaves  her  farm ;  and  if  you  will  be  here  at  eleven  on  Saturday 
morning,  I  will  ride  round  with  you,  and  settle  about  making 
some  repairs,  and  see  about  adding  a  bit  of  laud  to  the  take, 
as  she  will  want  to  keep  a  cow  and  some  pigs. 

"  Yours  faithfully,  CHRISTOPHER  CHEVEREL." 

After  ringing  the  bell  and  ordering  this  letter  to  be  Bent, 
Sir  Christopher  walked  out  to  join  the  party  on  the  lawn. 
But  finding  the  cushions  deserted,  he  walked  on  to  the  eastern 
front  of  the  building,  where,  by  the  side  of  the  grand  entrance, 
was  the  large  bow-window  of  the  saloon,  opening  on  to  the 
gravel-sweep,  and  looking  towards  a  long  vista  of  undulating 
turf,  bordered  by  tall  trees,  which,  seeming  to  unite  itself 
with  the  green  of  the  meadows  and  a  grassy  road  through  a 
plantation,  only  terminated  with  the  Gothic  arch  of  a  gateway 
in  the  far  distance.  The  bow  window  was  open,  and  Sir  Chris- 
topher, stepping  in,  found  the  group  he  sought,  examining  the 
progress  of  the  unfinished  ceiling.  It  was  in  the  same  style 
of  florid  pointed  Gothic  as  the  dining-room,  but  more  elabo- 
rate in  its  tracery,  which  was  like  petrified  lace-work  picked 
out  with  delicate  and  varied  coloring.  About  a  fourth  of  it 
still  remained  uncolored,  and  under  this  part  were  scaffolding, 
ladders,  and  tools ;  otherwise  the  spacious  saloon  was  empty 
of  furniture,  and  seemed  to  be  a  grand  Gothic  canopy  for  the 
group  of  five  human  figures  standing  in  the  centre. 

"  Francesco  has  been  getting  on  a  little  better  the  last  day 
or  two,"  said  Sir  Christopher,  as  he  joined  the  party :  "  he's 
a  sad  lazy  dog,  and  I  fancy  he  has  a  knack  of  sleeping  as 
he  stands,  with  his  brushes  in  his  hands.  But  I  must  spur 
him  on,  or  we  may  not  have  the  scaffolding  cleared  away 
before  the  bride  comes,  if  you  show  dexterous  generalship 


ME.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  95 

in  your  wooing,  eh,  Anthony  ?  and  take  your  Magdeburg 
quickly." 

"  Ah,  sir,  a  siege  is  known  to  be  one  of  the  most  tedious 
operations  in  war,"  said  Captain  Wybrow,  with  an  easy  smile. 

"  Not  when  there's  a  traitor  within  the  walls  in  the  shape 
of  a  soft  heart.  And  that  there  will  be,  if  Beatrice  has  her 
mother's  tenderness  as  well  as  her  mother's  beauty." 

"  What  do  you  think,  Sir  Christopher,"  said  Lady  Cheverel, 
who  seemed  to  wince  a  little  under  her  husband's  reminis- 
cences, "  of  hanging  Guercino'g  '  Sibyl '  over  that  door  when 
we  put  up  the  pictures  ?  It  is  rather  lost  in  my  sitting-room." 

"  Very  good,  my  love,"  answered  Sir  Christopher,  in  a  tone 
of  punctiliously  polite  affection ;  "  if  you  like  to  part  with  the 
ornament  from  your  own  room,  it  will  show  admirably  here. 
Our  portraits,  by  Sir  Joshua,  will  hang  opposite  the  window, 
and  the  '  Transfiguration  '  at  that  end.  You  see,  Anthony, 
I  am  leaving  no  good  places  on  the  walls  for  you  and  your 
wife.  We 'shall  turn  you  with  your  faces  to  the  wall  in  the 
gallery,  and  you  may  take  your  revenge  on  us  by-and-by." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  Mr.  Gilfil  turned  to 
Caterina  and  said, 

"  I  like  the  view  from  this  window  better  than  any  other 
in  the  house." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  filling 
with  tears ;  so  he  added,  "  Suppose  we  walk  out  a  little ;  Sir 
Christopher  and  my  lady  seem  to  be  occupied." 

Caterina  complied  silently,  and  they  turned  down  one  of 
the  gravel  walks  that  led,  after  many  windings  under  tall  trees 
a.nd  among  grassy  openings,  to  a  large  enclosed  flower-garden. 
Their  walk  was  perfectly  silent,  for  Maynard  Gilfil  knew  that 
Caterina's  thoughts  were  not  with  him,  and  she  had  been  long 
used  to  make  him  endure  the  weight  of  those  moods  which 
she  carefully  hid  from  others. 

They  reached  the  flower-garden,  and  turned  mechanically 
in  at  the  gate  that  opened,  through  a  high  thick  hedge,  on 
an  expanse  of  brilliant  color,  which,  after  the  green  shades 
they  had  passed  through,  startled  the  eye  like  flames.  The 
effect  was  assisted  by  an  undulation  of  the  ground,  which 
gradually  descended  from  the  entrance-gate,  and  then  rose 
again  towards  the  opposite  end,  crowned  by  an  orangery. 
The  flowers  were  glowing  with  their  evening  splendors ;  ver- 
benas and  heliotropes  were  sending  up  their  finest  incense. 
It  seemed  a  gala  where  all  was  happiness  and  brilliancy,  and 
misery  could  find  no  sympathy.  This  was  the  effect  it  had 
on  Caterina.  As  she  wound  among  the  beds  of  gold  and 
blue  and  pink,  where  the  flowers  seemed  to  be  looking  at  her 


96  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

with  wondering  elf-like  eyes,  knowing  nothing  of  sorrow,  the 
feeling  of  isolation  in  her  wretchedness  overcame  her,  and 
the  tears,  which  had  been  before  trickling  slowly  down  her 
pale  cheeks,  now  gushed  forth  accompanied  with  sobs.  And 
yet  there  was  a  loving  human  being  close  beside  her,  whose 
heart  was  aching  for  hers,  who  was  possessed  by  the  feeling 
that  she  was  miserable,  and  that  he  was  helpless  to  soothe 
her.  But  she  was  too  much  irritated  by  the  idea  that  his 
wishes  were  different  from  hers,  that  he  rather  regretted  the 
folly  of  her  hopes  than  the  probability  of  their  disappoint- 
ment, to  take  any  comfort  in  his  sympathy.  Caterina,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  turned  away  from  sympathy  which  she  sus- 
pected to  be  mingled  with  criticism,  as  the  child  turns  away 
from  the  sweetmeat  in  which  it  suspects  imperceptible  med- 
icine. 

"  Dear  Caterina,  I  think  I  hear  voices,"  said  Mr.  Gilfil ; 
"  they  may  be  coming  this  way." 

She  checked  herself  like  one  accustomed  to  conceal  her 
emotions,  and  ran  rapidly  to  the  other  end  of  the  garden, 
where  she  seemed  occupied  in  selecting  a  rose.  Presently 
Lady  Cheverel  entered,  leaning  on  the  ann  of  Captain  Wy- 
brow,  and  followed  by  Sir  Christopher.  The  party  stopped 
to  admire  the  tiers  of  geraniums  near  the  gate ;  and  in  the 
mean  time  Caterina  tripped  back  with  a  moss  rose-bud  in  her 
hand,  and,  going  up  to  Sir  Christopher,  said, "  There,  Padron- 
cello — there  is  a  nice  rose  for  your  button-hole." 

"  Ah,  you  black-eyed  monkey,"  he  said,  fondly  stroking 
her  cheek ;  "  so  you  have  been  running  off  with  Maynard, 
either  to  torment  or  coax  him  an  inch  or  two  deeper  into  love. 
Come,  come,  I  want  you  to  sing  us  '  Ho  perduto  '  before  we 
sit  down  to  picquet.  Anthony  goes  to-morrow,  you  know; 
you  must  warble  him  into  the  right  sentimental  lover's  mood, 
that  he  may  acquit  himself  well  at  Bath."  He  put  her  little 
arm  under  his,  and  calling  to  Lady  Cheverel,  "  Come,  Henri- 
etta !"  led  the  way  towards  the  house. 

The  party  entered  the  drawing-room,  which,  with  its  oriel 
window,  corresponded  to  the  library  in  the  other  wing,  and 
had  also  a  flat  ceiling  heavy  with  carving  and  blazonry  ;  but 
the  window  being  unshaded,  and  the  walls  hung  with  full- 
length  portraits  of  knights  and  dames  in  scarlet,  white,  and 
gold,  it  had  not  the  sombre  effect  of  the  library.  Here  hung 
the  portrait  of  Sir  Anthony  Cheverel,  who  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  IL  was  the  renovator  of  the  family  splendor,  which 
had  suffered  some  declension  from  the  early  brilliancy  of  that 
Chevreuil,  who  came  over  with  the  Conqueror.  A  very  im- 
posing personage  was  this  Sir  Anthony,  standing  with  ony 


MK.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STOBY.  97 

ami  akimbo,  and  one  fine  leg  and  foot  advanced,  evidently 
with  a  view  to  the  gratification  of  his  contemporaries  and 
posterity.  You  might  have  taken  off  his  splendid  peruke, 
and  his  scarlet  cloak,  which  was  thrown  backward  from  his 
shoulders,  without  annihilating  the  dignity  of  his  appear- 
ance. And  he  had  known  how  to  choose  a  wife,  too,  for  his 
lady,  hanging  opposite  to  him,  with  her  sunny  brown  hair 
drawn  away  in  bands  from  her  mild  grave  face,  and  falling  in 
two  large  rich  curls  on  hqr  snowy  gently-sloping  neck,  which 
shamed  the  harsher  hue  and  outline  of  her  white  satin  robe, 
was  a  fit  mother  of  "  large-acred  "  heirs. 

In  this  room  tea  was  served ;  and  here,  every  evening,  as 
regularly  as  the  great  clock  in  the  court-yard  with  deliberate 
bass  tones  struck  nine,  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel 
sat  down  to  picquet  until  half-past  ten,  when  Mr.  Gilfil  read 
prayers  to  the  assembled  household  in  the  chapel. 

But  now  it  was  not  near  nine,  and  Caterina  must  sit  down 
to  the  harpsichord  and  sing  Sir  Christopher's  favorite  airs, 
by  Gluck  and  Paesiello,  whose  operas,  for  the  happiness  of 
that  generation,  were  then  to  be  heard  on  the  London  stage. 
It  happened  this  evening  that  the  sentiment  of  these  airs, 
"  Che  faro  senza  Earydice  .?"  and  "Ho  perduto  il  bel  sembi- 
ante"  in  both  of  which  the  singer  pours  out  his  yearning  af- 
ter his  lost  love,  came  very  close  to  Caterina's  own  feeling. 
But. her  emotion,  instead  of  being  a  hindrance  to  her  singing, 
gave  her  additional  power.  Her  singing  was  what  she  could 
do  best ;  it  was  her  one  point  of  superiority,  in  which  it  was 
probable  she  would  excel  the  high-born  beauty  whom  An- 
thony was  to  woo  ;  and  her  love,  her  jealousy,  her  pride,  her 
rebellion  against  her  destiny,  made  one  stream  of  passion 
which  welled  forth  in  the  deep  rich  tones  of  her  voice.  She 
had  a  rare  contralto,  which  Lady  Cheverel,  who  had  high 
musical  taste,  had  been  careful  to  preserve  her  from  strain- 
ing. 

"  Excellent,  Caterina,"  said  Lady  Cheverel,  as  there  was 
a  pause  after  the  wonderful  linked  sweetness  of  "Che  faro" 
"  I  never  heard  you  sing  that  so  well.  Once  more  !" 

It  was  repeated  ;  and  then  came  "Ho perduto"  which  Sir 
Christopher  encored,  in  spite  of  the  clock,  just  striking  nine. 
When  the  last  note  was  dying  out,  he  said — 

"  There's  a  clever  black-eyed  monkey.  Now  bring  out 
the  table  for  picquet." 

Caterina  drew  out  the  table  and  placed  the  cards ;  then, 
with  her  rapid  fairy  suddenness  of  motion,  threw  herself  on 
her  knees,  and  clasped  Sir  Christopher's  knee.  He  bent 
down,  stroked  her  cheek,  and  smiled. 


98  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Caterina,  that  is  foolish,"  said  Lady  ChevereL  "  I  wish 
you  would  leave  off  those  stage-players'  antics." 

She  jumped  up,  arranged  the  music  on  the  harpsichord, 
and  then,  seeing  the  Baronet  and  his  lady  seated  at  picquet, 
quietly  glided  out  of  the  room. 

Captain  Wybrow  had  been  leaning  near  the  harpsichord 
during  the  singing,  and  the  chaplain  had  thrown  himself  on 
a  sofa  at  the  end  of  the  room.  They  both  now  took  up  a 
book.  Mr.  Gilfil  chose  the  last  number  of  the  "Gentleman's 
Magazine  ;"  Captain  Wybrow,  stretched  on  an  ottoman  near 
the  door,  opened  "  Fanblas  ;"  and  there  was  perfect  silence  in 
the  room  which,  ten  minutes  before,  was  vibrating  to  the  pas- 
sionate tones  of  Caterina. 

She  had  made  her  way  along  the  cloistered  passages,  now 
lighted  here  and  there  by  a  small  oil-lamp,  to  the  grand  stair- 
case, which  led  directly  to  a  gallery  running  along  the  whole 
eastern  side  of  the  building,  where  it  was  her  habit  to  walk 
when  she  wished  to  be  alone.  The  bright  moonlight  was 
streaming  through  the  windows,  throwing  into  strange  light 
and  shadow  the  heterogeneous  objects  that  lined  the  long 
walls :  Greek  statues  and  busts  of  Roman  emperora ;  low 
cabinets  filled  with  curiosities,  natural  and  antiquarian  ;  tropi- 
cal birds  and  huge  horns  of  beasts ;  Hindoo  gods  and  strange 
shells ;  swords  and  daggers,  and  bits  of  chain-armor ;  Roman 
lamps  and  tiny  models  of  Greek  temples ;  and,  above  all  these, 
queer  old  family  portraits — of  little  boys  and  girls,  once  the 
hope  of  the  Cheverels  with  close-shaven  heads  imprisoned  in 
stiff  ruffs — of  faded,  pink-faced  ladies,  with  rudimentary  fea- 
tures and  highly-developed  head-dresses — of  gallant  gentle- 
men, with  high  hips,  high  shoulders,  and  red  pointed  beards. 

Here,  on  rainy  days,  Sir  Christopher  and  his  lady  took 
their  promenade,  and  here  billiards  were  played  ;  but,  in  the 
evening,  it  was  forsaken  by  all  except  Caterina — and,  some- 
times, one  other  person. 

She  paced  up  and  down  in  the  moonlight,  her  pale  face 
and  thin  white-robed  form  making  her  look  like  the  ghost  of 
some  former  Lady  Cheverel  come  to  revisit  the  glimpses  of 
the  moon. 

By-and-by  she  paused  opposite  the  broad  window  above 
the  portico,  and  looked  out  on  the  long  vista  of  turf  and  trees 
now  stretching  chill  and  saddened  in  the  moonlight. 

Suddenly  a  breath  of  warmth  and  roses  seemed  to  float 
towards  her,  and  an  arm  stole  gently  round  her  waist,  while 
a  soft  hand  took  .up  her  tiny  fingers.  Caterina  felt  an  elec* 
trie  thrill,  and  was  motionless  for  one  long  moment ;  then 
she  pushed  away  the  arm  and  hand,  and,  turning  round,  lift- 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORT.  99 

ed  up  to  the  face  that  hung  over  her  eyes  full  of  tenderness 
and  reproach.  The  fawn-like  unconsciousness  was  gone,  and 
in  that  one  look  were  the  ground  tones  of  poor  little  Cateri- 
na's  nature — intense  love  and  fierce  jealousy. 

"  Why  do  you  push  me  away,  Tina  ?"  said  Captain  Wy- 
brow  in  a  half-whisper  ;  "  are  you  angry  with  me  for  what  a 
hard  fate  puts  upon  me  ?  Would  you  have  me  cross  my  un- 
cle— who  has  done  so  much  for  us  both — in  his  dearest  wish  ? 
You  know  I  have  duties — we  both  have  duties — before  which 
feeling  must  be  sacrificed." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Caterina,  stamping  her  foot,  and  turning 
away  her  head  ;  "  don't  tell  what  1  know  already." 

There  was  a  voice  speaking  in  Caterina's  mind  to  which 
she  had  never  yet  given  vent.  That  voice  said  continually, 
"Why  did  he  make  me  love  him — why  did  he  let  me  know 
he  loved  me,  if  he  knew  all  the  while  that  he  couldn't  brave 
every  thing  for  my  sake  ?"  Then  love  answered,  "  He  was 
led  on  by  the  feeling  of  the  moment,  as  you  have  been,  Cate- 
rina ;  and  now  you  ought  to  help  him  to  do  what  is  right." 
Then  the  voice  rejoined,  "  It  was  a  slight  matter  to  him. 
He  doesn't  much  mind  giving  you  up.  He  will  soon  love 
that  beautiful  woman,  and  forget  a  poor  little  pale  thing  like 
you." 

Thus  love,  anger,  and  jealousy  were  struggling  in  that 
young  soul. 

"  Besides,  Tina,"  continued  Captain  Wybrow  in  still  gen- 
tler tones,  "  I  shall  not  succeed.  Miss  Assher  very  likely  pre- 
fers some  one  else  ;  and  you  know  I  have  the  best  will  in  the 
world  to  fail.  I  shall  come  back  a  hapless  bachelor — perhaps 
to  find  you  already  married  to  the  good-looking  chaplain, 
who  is  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  you.  Poor  Sir  Chris- 
topher has  made  up  his  mind  that  you're  to  have  Gilfil." 

"  Why  will  you  speak  so  ?  You  speak  from  your  own  wan* 
of  feeling.  Go  away  from  me." 

"  Don't  let  us  part  in  anger,  Tina.  All  this  may  pas> 
away.  It's  as  likely  as  not  that  I  may  never  marry  any  one 
at  all.  These  palpitations  may  carry  me  off,  and  you  may 
have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I  shall  never  be  any 
body's  bridegroom.  Who  knows  what  may  happen  ?  I  may 
be  my  own  master  before  I  get  into  the  bonds  of  holy  matri- 
mony, and  be  able  to  choose  my  little  singing-bird.  Why 
should  we  distress  ourselves  before  the  time  ?" 

"  It  is  easy  to  talk  so  when  you  are  not  feeling,"  said  Cat' 
erina,  the  tears  flowing  fast.  "It  is  bad  to-bear  now,  what- 
ever may  come  after.  But  you  don't  care  about  my  misery." 

"  Don't  I,  Tina  ?"  said  Anthony  in  his  tenderest  tones,  again 


100  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

stealing  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  drawing  her  towards 
him.  Poor  Tina  was  the  slave  of  this  voice  and  touch. 
Grief  and  resentment,  retrospect  and  foreboding,  vanished — 
all  life  before  and  after  melted  away  in  the  bliss  of  that  mo- 
ment, as  Anthony  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

Captain  Wybrow  thought, "  Poor  little  Tina !  it  would 
make  her  very  happy  to  have  me.  But  she  is  a  mad  little 
thing." 

At  that  moment  a  loud  bell  startled  Caterina  from  her 
trance  of  bliss.  It  was  the  summons  to  prayers  in  the  chap- 
el, and  she  hastened  away,  leaving  Captain  Wybrow  to  fol- 
low slowly. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight,  that  family  assembled  to  worship  in 
the  little  chapel,  where  a  couple  of  wax  candles  threw  a  mild 
faint  light  on  the  figures  kneeling  there.  In  the  desk  was 
Mr.  Gilfil,  with  his  face  a  shade  graver  than  usual.  On  his 
right  hand,  kneeling  on  their  red  velvet  cushions,  were  the 
master  and  mistress  of  the  household,  in  their  elderly  digni- 
fied beauty.  On  his  left,  the  youthful  grace  of  Anthony  and 
Caterina,  in  all  the  striking  contrast  of  their  coloring — he, 
with  his  exquisite  outline  and  rounded  fairness,  like  an  Olym- 
pian god ;  she,  dark  and  tiny,  like  a  gypsy  changeling.  Then 
there  were  the  domestics  kneeling  on  red-covered  forms, — 
the  women  headed  by  Mrs.  Bellamy,  the  natty  little  old  house- 
keeper, in  snowy  cap  and  apron,  and  Mrs.  Sharp,  my  lady's 
maid,  of  somewhat  vinegar  aspect  and  flaunting  attire  ;  the 
men  by  Mr.  Bellamy  the  butler,  and  Mr.  Warren,  Sir  Christo- 
pher's venerable  valet. 

A  few  collects  from  the  Evening  Service  was  what  Mr. 
Gilfil  habitually  read,  ending  with  the  simple  petition, "  Light- 
en our  darkness." 

And  then  they  all  rose,  the  servants  turning  to  courtesy 
and  bow  as  they  went  out.  The  family  returned  to'  the 
drawing-room,  said  good-night  to  each  other,  and  dispersed 
— all  to  speedy  slumber  except  two.  Caterina  only  cried 
herself  to  sleep  after  the  clock  had  struck  twelve.  Mr.  Gilfil 
lay  awake  still  longer,  thinking  that  very  likely  Caterina 
was  crying. 

Captain  Wybrow,  having  dismissed  his  valet  at  eleven, 
was  soon  in  a  soft  slumber,  his  face  looking  like  a  fine  cameo 
in  high  relief  on  the  slightly  indented  pillow. 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STOEY.  101 


CHAPTER  HI. 

THE  last  chapter  has  given  the  discerning  reader  sufficient ' 
insight  into  the  state  of  things  at  Cheverel  Manor  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1788.  In  that  summer,  we  know,  the  great  nation  of 
France  was  agitated  by  conflicting  thoughts  and  passions, 
which  were  but  the  beginning  of  sorrows.  And  in  our  Cat- 
erina's  little  breast,  too,  there  were  terrible  struggles.  The 
poor  bird  was  beginning  to  flutter  and  vainly  dash  its  soft 
breast  against  the  hard  iron  bars  of  the  inevitable,  and  we 
see  too  plainly  the  danger,  if  that  anguish  should  go  on 
heightening  instead  of  being  allayed,  that  the  palpitating 
heart  may  be  fatally  bruised. 

Meanwhile,  if,  as  I  hope,  you  feel  some  interest  in  Caterina 
and  her  friends  at  Cheverel  Manor,  you  are  perhaps  asking, 
How  came  she  to  be  there  ?  How  was  it  that  this  tiny,  dark- 
eyed  child  of  the  south,  whose  face  was  immediately  suggest- 
ive of  olive-covered  hills  and  taper-lit  shrines,  came  to  have 
her  home  in  that  stately  English  manor-house,  by  the  side 
of  the  blonde  matron,  Lady  Chevei'el — almost  as  if  a  hum- 
ming-bird were  found  perched  on  one  of  the  elm-trees  in  the 
park,  by  the  side  of  her  ladyship's  handsomest  pouter-pigeon? 
Speaking  good  English,  too,  and  joining  in  Protestant  prayers ! 
Surely  she  must  have  been  adopted  and  brought  over  to  Eng- 
land at  a  very  early  age.  She  was. 

During  Sir  Christopher's  last  visit  to  Italy  with  his  lady, 
fifteen  years  before,  they  resided  for  some  time  at  Milan, 
where  Sir  Christopher,  who  was  an  enthusiast  for  Gothic 
architecture,  and  was  then  entertaining  the  project  of  meta- 
morphosing his  plain  brick  family  mansion  into  the  model  of 
a  Gothic  manor-house,  was  bent  on  studying  the  details  of 
that  marble  miracle,  the  Cathedral.  Here  Lady  Cheverel,  as 
at  other  Italian  cities  where  she  made  any  protracted  stay, 
engaged  a  maestro  to  give  her  lessons  in  singing,  for  she  had 
then  not  only  a  fine  musical  taste,  but  a  fine  soprano  voice. 
Those  were  days  when  very  rich  people  used  manuscript  mu- 
sic, and  many  a  man  who  resembled  Jean  Jacques  in  nothing 
else,  resembled  him  in  getting  a  livelihood  "  a  copier  la  mu- 
sique  a  tant  la  page."  Lady  Cheverel  having  need  of  this 
service,  Maestro  Albani  told  her  he  would  send  her  apoverav- 
cio  of  his  acquaintance,  whose  manuscript  was  the  neatest  and 
most  correct  he  knew  of.  Unhappily  the  poveraccio  was  not 


102  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

always  in  his  best  wits,  and  was  sometimes  rather  slow  in 
consequence ;  but  it  would  be  a  work  of  Christian  charity 
worthy  of  the  beautiful  Signora  to  employ  poor  Sarti. 

The  next  morning,  Mrs.  Sharp,  then  a  blooming  abigail  of 
three-and-thirty,  entered  her  lady's  private  room  and  said, 
"  If  you  please,  my  lady,  there's  the  f  rowiest,  shabbiest  man 
you  ever  saw,  outside,  and  he's  told  Mr.  Warren  as  the  sing- 
ing-master sent  him  to  see  your  ladyship.  But  I  think  you'll 
hardly  like  him  to  come  in  here.  Belike  he's  only  a  beggar." 

"  Oh,  yes,  show  him  in  immediately." 

Mrs.  Sharp  retired,  muttering  something  about  "  fleas  and 
worse."  She  had  the  smallest  possible  admiration  for  fair 
Ausonia  and  its  natives,  and  even  her  profound  deference  for 
Sir  Christopher  and  her  lady  could  not  prevent  her  from  ex- 
pressing her  amazement  at  the  infatuation  of  gentlefolks  in 
choosing  to  sojourn  among  v  Papises,  in  countries  where  there 
was  no  getting  to  air  a  bit  o1  linen,  and  where  the  people 
smelt  o'  garlick  fit  to  knock  you  down." 

However  she  presently  reappeared,  ushering  in  a  small, 
meagre  man,  sallow  and  dingy,  with  a  restless,  wandering  look 
in  his  dull  eyes,  and  an  excessive  timidity  about  his  deep  rev- 
erences, which  gave  him  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  been  long 
a  solitary  prisoner.  Yet  through  all  this  squalor  and  wretch- 
edness there  were  some  traces  discernible  of  comparative 
youth  and  former  good  looks.  Lady  Cheverel,  though  not 
very  tender-hearted,  still  less  sentimental,  was  essentially  kind 
and  liked  to  dispense  benefits  like  a  goddess,  who  looks  down 
benignly  on  the  halt,  the  maimed,  and  the  blind  that  approach 
her  shrine.  She  was  smitten  with  some  compassion  at  the 
sight  of  poor  Sarti,  who  struck  her  as  the  mere  battered  wreck 
of  a  vessel  that  might  have  once  floated  gayly  enough  on  its 
outward  voyage,  to  the  sound  of  pipes  and  tabors.  She  spoke 
gently  as  she  pointed  out  to  him  the  operatic  selections  she 
wished  him  to  copy,  and  he  seemed  to  sun  himself  in  her  au- 
burn, radiant  presence,  so  that  when  he  made  his  exit  with  the 
music-books  under  his  arm,  his  bow,  though  not  less  reverent, 
was  less  timid. 

It  was  ten  years  at  least  since  Sarti  had  seen  any  thing  so 
bright  and  stately  and  beautiful  as  Lady  Cheverel.  For 
the  time  was  far  off  in  which  he  had  trod  the  stage  in  satin 
and  feathers,  the  primo  tenore  of  one  short  season.  He  had 
completely  lost  his  voice  in  the  following  winter,  and  had  ever 
since  been  little  better  than  a  cracked  fiddle,  which  is  good 
for  nothing  but  firewood.  For,  like  many  Italian  singers,  he 
was  too  ignorant  to  teach,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  one 
talent  of  penmanship,  he  and  his  young  helpless  wife  might 


ME.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  103 

have  starved.  Then,  just  after  their  third  child  was  born,  fe- 
ver came,  swept  away  the  sickly  mother  and  the  two  eldest 
children,  and  attacked  Sarti  himself,  who  rose  from  his  sick-bed 
with  enfeebled  brain  and  muscle,  and  a  tiny  baby  on  his  hands, 
scarcely  four  months  old.  He  lodged  over  a  fruit-shop  kept 
by  a  stout  virago,  loud  of  tongue  and  irate  in  temper,  but 
who  had  had  children  born  to  her,  and  so  had  taken  care  of 
the  tiny  yellow,  black-eyed  bambinetta,  and  tended  Sarti  him- 
self through  his  sickness.  Here  he  continued  to  live,  earning 
a  meagre  subsistence  for  himself  and  his  little  one  by  the 
work  of  copying  music,  put  into  his  hands  chiefly  by  Maestro 
Albani.  He  seemed  to  exist  for  nothing  but  the  child :  he 
tended  it,  he  dandled  it,  he  chatted  to  it,  living  with  it  alone 
in  his  one  room  above  the  fruit-shop,  only  asking  his  landlady 
to  take  care  of  the  marmoset  during  his  short  absences  in 
fetching  and  carrying  home  work.  Customers  frequenting 
that  fruit-shop  might  often  see  the  tiny  Caterina  seated  on 
the  floor, with  her  legs  in  a  heap  of  pease,  which  it  was  her 
delight  to  kick  about ;  or  perhaps  deposited,  like  a  kitten,  in 
a  large  basket  out  of  harm's  way. 

Sometimes,  however,  Sarti  left  his  little  one  with  another 
kind  of  protectress.  He  was  very  regular  in  his  devotions, 
which  he  paid  thrice  a  week  in  the  great  cathedral,  carrying 
Caterina  with  him.  Here,  when  the  high  morning  sun  was 
warming  the  myriad  glittering  pinnacles  without,  and  strug- 
gling against  the  massive  gloom  within,  the  shadow  of  a  man 
with  a  child  on  his  arm  might  be  seen  flitting  across  the  more 
stationary  shadows  of  pillar  and  mullion,  and  making  its  way 
towards  a  little  tinsel  Madonna  hanging  in  a  retired  spot  near 
the  choir.  Amid  all  the  sublimities  of  the  mighty  cathedral, 
poor  Sarti  had  fixed  on  this  tinsel  Madonna  as  the  symbol  of 
divine  mercy  and  protection, — just  as  a  child,  in  the  presence 
of  a  great  landscape,  sees  none  of  the  glories  of  wood  and  sky, 
but  sets  its  heart  on  a  floating  feather  or  insect  that  happens 
to  be  on  a  level  with  its  eye.  Here,  then,  Sarti  worshipped 
and  prayed,  setting  Caterina  on  the  floor  by  his  side  ;  and  now 
and  then,  when  the  cathedral  lay  near  some  place  where  he 
had  to  call,  and  did  not  like  to  take  her,  he  would  leave  her 
there  in  front  of  the  tinsel  Madonna,  where  she  would  sit, 
perfectly  good,  amusing  herself  with  low  crowing  noises  and 
see-sawings  of  her  tiny  body.  And  when  Sarti  came  back,  he 
always  found  that  the  Blessed  Mother  had  taken  good  care 
of  Caterina. 

That  was  briefly  the  history  of  Sarti,  who  fulfilled  so  well 
the  orders  Lady  Cheverel  gave  him,  that  she  sent  him  away 
again  with  a  stock  of  new  work.  But  this  time,  week  after 


104  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

week  passed,  and  he  neither  reappeared  nor  sent  home  the 
music  intrusted  to  him.  Lady  Cheverel  began  to  be  anxious, 
and  was  thinking  of  sending  Warren  to  inquire  at  the  ad- 
dress Sarti  had  given  her,  when  one  day,  as  she  was  equip- 
ped for  driving  out,  the  valet  brought  in  a  small  piece  of  pa- 
per, which,  he  said,  had  been  left  for  her  ladyship  by  a  man 
who  was  carrying  fruit.  The  paper  contained  only  three 
tremulous  lines,  in  Italian : 

"  Will  the  Eccelentissima,  for  the  love  of  God,  have  pity 
on  a  dying  man,  and  come  to  him  ?" 

Lady  Cheverel  recognized  the  handwriting  as  Sarti's  in 
spite  of  its  tremulousness,  and  going  down  to  her  carriage, 
ordered  the  Milanese  coachman  to  drive  to  Strada  Quinqua- 
gesima,  Numero  10.  The  coach  stopped  in  a  dirty,  narrow 
street  opposite  La  Pazzini's  fruit-shop,  and  that  large  speci- 
men of  womanhood  immediately  presented  herself  at  the 
door,  to  the  extreme  disgust  of  Mrs.  Sharp,  who  remarked 
privately  to  Mr.  Warren  that  La  Pazzini  was  a  "  hijeous  por- 
pis."  The  fruit-woman,  however,  was  all  smiles  and  deep 
courtesies  to  the  Eccelentissima,  who,  not  very  well  under- 
standing her  Milanese  dialect,  abbreviated  the  conversation 
by  asking  to  be  shown  at  once  to  Signer  Sarti.  La  Pazzini 
preceded  her  up  the  dark  narrow  stairs,  and  opened  a  door 
through  which  she  begged  her  ladyship  to  enter.  Directly 
opposite  the  door  lay  Sarti,  on  a  low  miserable  bed.  His 
eyes  were  glazed,  and  no  movement  indicated  that  he  was 
conscious  of  their  entrance. 

On  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  seated  a  tiny  child,  apparently 
not  three  years  old,  her  head  covered  by  a  linen  cap,  her  feet 
clothed  with  leather  boots,  above  which  her  little  yellow  legs 
showed  thin  and  naked.  A  frock,  made  of  what  had  once 
been  a  gay  flowered  silk,  was  her  only  other  garment.  Her 
large  dark  eyes  shone  from  out  her  queer  little  face,  like  two 
precious  stones  in  a  grotesque  image  carved  in  old  ivory. 
She  held  an  empty  medicine-bottle  in  her  hand,  and  was 
amusing  herself  by  putting  the  cork  in  and  drawing  it  out 
again,  to  hear  how  it  would  pop. 

La  Pazzini  went  up  to  the  bed  and  said,  "  Ecco  la  nobi- 
lissima  donna !"  but  directly  after  screamed  out,  "  Holy 
mother  !  he  is  dead !" 

It  was  so.  The  entreaty  had  not  been  sent  in  time  for 
Sarti  to  carry  out  his  project  of  asking  the  great  English 
lady  to  take  care  of  his  Caterina.  That  was  the  thought 
which  haunted  his  feeble  brain  as  soon  as  he  began  to  fear 
that  his  illness  would  end  in  death.  She  had  wealth — she 
was  kind — she  would  surely  do  something  for  the  poor  or- 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  105 

phan.  And  so,  at  last,  he  sent  that  scrap  of  paper  which 
won  the  fulfillment  of  his  prayer,  though  he  did  not  live  to 
utter  it.  Lady  Cheverel  gave  La  Pazzini  money  that  the 
last  decencies  might  be  paid  to  the  dead  man,  and  carried 
away  Caterina,  meaning  to  consult  Sir  Christopher  as  to  what 
should  be  done  with  her.  Even  Mrs.  Sharp  had  been  so 
smitten  with  pity  by  the  scene  she  had  witnessed  when  she 
was  summoned  up  stairs  to  fetch  Caterina,  as  to  shed  a  small 
tear,  though  she  was  not  at  all  subject  to  that  weakness; 
indeed,  she  abstained  from  it  on  principle,  because,  as  she 
often  said,  it  was  known  to  be  the  worst  thing  in  the  world 
for  the  eyes. 

On  the  way  back  to  her  hotel,  Lady  Cheverel  turnod  over 
various  projects  in  her  mind  regarding  Caterina,  but  at  last 
one  gained  the  preference  over  all  the  rest.  Why  should 
they  not  take  the  child  to  England, and  bring  her  up  there? 
They  had  been  married  twelve  years,  yet  Cheverel  Manor 
was  cheered  by  no  children's  voices,  aijd  the  old  house  would 
be  all  the  better  for  a  little  of  that  music.  Besides,  it  would 
be  a  Christian  work  to  train  this  little  Papist  into  a  good 
Protestant,  and  graft  as  much  English  fruit  as  possible  on 
the  Italian  stem. 

Sir  Christopher  listened  to  this  plan  with  hearty  acquies- 
cence. He  loved  children,  and  took  at  once  to  the  little 
black-eyed  monkey — his  name  for  Caterina  all  through  her 
short  life.  But  neither  he  nor  Lady  Cheverel  had  any  idea 
of  adopting  her  as  their  daughter,  and  giving  her  their  own 
rank  in  life.  They  were  much  too  English  and  aristocratic 
to  think  of  any  thing  so  romantic.  No !  the  child  would  be 
brought  up  at  Cheverel  Manor  as  a  protegee,  to  be  ultimate- 
ly useful,  perhaps,  in  sorting  worsteds,  keeping  accounts,  read- 
ing aloud,  and  otherwise  supplying  the  place  of  spectacles 
when  her  ladyship's  eyes  should  wax  dim. 

So  Mrs.  Sharp  had  to  procure  new  clothes,  to  replace  tho 
linen  cap,  flowered  frock,  and  leathern  boots;  and  now, 
strange  to  say,  little  Caterina,  who  had  suffered  many  un- 
conscious evils  in  her  existence  of  thirty  moons,  first  began 
to  know  conscious  troubles.  "Ignorance,"  says  Ajax,  "is  a 
painless  evil;"  so,  I  should  think,  is  dirt,  considering  the 
merry  faces  that  go  along  with  it.  At  any  rate,  cleanliness 
is  sometimes  a  painful  good,  as  any  one  can  vouch  who  has 
had  his  face  washed  the  wrong  way,  by  a  pitiless  hand  with 
a  gold  ring  on  the  third  finger.  If  you,  reader,  have  not 
known  that  initiatory  anguish,  it  is  idle  to  expect  that  you 
will  form  any  approximate  conception  of  what  Caterina  en- 
dured under  Mrs.  Sharp's  new  dispensation  of  soap-and-wa- 

5* 


106  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

ter.  Happily,  this  purgatory  came  presently  to  be  associated 
in  her  tiny  brain  with  a  passage  straightway  to  a  seat  of 
bliss — the  sofa  in  Lady  Cheverel's  sitting-room,  where  there 
were  toys  to  be  broken,  a  ride  was  to  be  had  on  Sir  Christo- 
pher's knee,  and  a  spaniel  of  resigned  temper  was  prepared 
to  undergo  small  tortures  without  flinching. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  three  months  from  the  time  of  Caterina's  adoption — 
namely,  in  the  late  autumn  of  1773 — the  chimneys  of  Chev- 
erel  Manor  were  sending  up  unwonted  smoke,  and  the  serv- 
ants were  awaiting  in  excitement  the  return  of  their  master 
and  mistress  after  a  two  years'  absence.  Great  was  the  as- 
tonishment of  Mrs.  Bellamy,  the  housekeeper,  when  Mr.  War- 
ren lifted  a  little  black-eyed  child  out  of  the  carriage,  and 
great  was  Mrs.  Sharp's  sense  of  superior  information  and  ex- 
perience, as  she  detailed  Caterina's  history,  interspersed  with 
copious  comments,  to  the  rest  of  the  upper  servants  that 
evening,  as  they  were  taking  a  comfortable  glass  of  grog  to- 
gether in  the  housekeeper's  room. 

A  pleasant  room  it  was  as  any  party  need  desire  "to  mus- 
ter in  on  a  cold  November  evening.  The  fireplace  alone  was 
a  picture  :  a  wide  and  deep  recess  with  a  low  brick  altar  in 
the  middle,  where  great  logs  of  dry  wood  sent  myriad  sparks 
up  the  dark  chimney-throat ;  .and  over  the  front  of  this  re- 
cess a  large  wooden  entablature  bearing  this  motto,  finely 
carved  in  old  English  letters,  "jTeur  (B>ob  anb  honor  tl)C 
King,"  And  beyond  the  party,  who  formed  a  half-moon 
with  their  chairs  and  well-furnished  table  round  this  bright 
fireplace,  what  a  space  of  chiaroscuro  for  the  imagination  to 
revel  in  !  Stretching  across  the  far  end  of  the  room,  what  an 
oak  table,  high  enough  surely  for  Homer's  gods,  standing  on 
four  massive  legs,  bossed  and  bulging  like  sculptured  urns  ! 
and,  lining  the  distant  wall,  what  vast  cupboards,  suggestive 
of  inexhaustible  apricot  jam  and  promiscuous  butler's  per- 
quisites !  A  stray  picture  or  two  had  found  their  way  down 
there,  and  made  agreeable  patches  of  dark  brown  on  the  buff- 
colored  walls.  High  over  the  loud-resounding  double  door 
hung  one  which,  from  some  indications  of  a  race  looming  out 
of  blackness,  might,  by  a  great  synthetic  effort,  be  pro- 
nounced a  Magdalen.  Considerably  lower  down  hung  the 
similitude  of  a  hat  and  feathers,  with  portions  of  a  ruff,  stated 


MB.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  107 

by  Mrs.  Bellamy  to  represent  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  who  invent- 
ed gunpowder,  and,  in  her  opinion,  "  might  ha'  been  better 
emplyed." 

But  this  evening  the  mind  is  but  slightly  arrested  by  the 
great  Verulam,  and  is  in  the  humor  to  think  a  dead  philoso- 
pher less  interesting  than  a  living  gardener,  who  sits  conspic- 
uous in  the  half-circle  round  the  fireplace.  Mr.  Bates  is  hab- 
itually a  guest  in  the  housekeeper's  room  of  an  evening, 
preferring  the  social  pleasures  there — the  feast  of  gossip 
and  the  flow  of  grog — to  a  bachelor's  chair  in  his  charming 
thatched  cottage  on  a  little  island,  where  every  sound  is 
remote  but  the  cawing  of  rooks  and  the  screaming  of  wild 
geese :  poetic  sounds,  doubtless,  but,  humanly  speaking,  not 
convivial. 

Mr.  Bates  was  by  no  means  an  average  person,  to  be  pass- 
ed without  special  notice.  He  was  a  sturdy  Yorkshireman, 
approaching  forty,  whose  face  Nature  seemed  to  have  colored 
when  she '  was  in  a  hurry,  and  had  no  time  to  attend  to 
nuances,  for  every  inch  of  him  visible  above  his  neckcloth 
was  of  one  impartial  redness  ;  so  that  when  he  was  at  some 
distance  your  imagination  was  at  liberty  to  place  his  lips 
anywhere  between  his  nose  and  chin.  Seen  closer,  his  lips 
were  discerned  to  be  of  a  pecaliar  cut,  and  I  fancy  this  had 
something  to  do  with  the  peculiarity  of  his  dialect,  which,  as 
we  shall  see,  was  individual  rather  than  provincial.  Mr. 
Bates  was  further  distinguished  from  the  common  herd  by  a 
perpetual  blinking  of  the  eyes ;  and  this,  together  with  the 
red-i-ose  tint  of  his  complexion,  and  a  way  he  had  of  hanging 
his  head  forward,  and  rolling  it  from  side  to  side  as  he  walk- 
ed, gave  him  the  air  of  a  Bacchus  in  a  blue  apron,  who,  in  the 
present  reduced  circumstances  of  Olympus,  had  taken  to  the 
management  of  his  own  vines.  Yet,  as  gluttons  are  often 
thin,  so  sober  men  are  often  rubicund ;  and  Mr.  Bates  was 
sober,  with  that  manly,  British,  churchman-like  sobriety 
which  can  carry  a  few  glasses  of  grog  without  any  percepti- 
ble clarification  of  ideas. 

"  Dang  my  boottons  !"  observed  Mr.  Bates,  who,  at  the  con- 
clusion of  Mrs.  Sharp's  narrative,  felt  himself  urged  to  his 
strongest  interjection ;  "it's  what  I  shouldn't  ha'  looked  for 
from  Sir  Cristhifer  an'  my  ledy,  to  bring  a  furrin  child  into 
the  coonthry ;  an'  depend  on't,  whether  you  an'  me  lives  to 
see't  or  noo,  it'll  coom  to  soom  harm.  The  first  sitiation  iver 
I  held — it  was  a  hold  hancient  habbey,  wi'  the  biggest  or- 
chard o'  apples  an'  pears  you  ever  see — there  was  a  French  va- 
let, an'  he  stool  silk  stoockins,  an'  shirts,  an'  rings,  an'  ivery 
thin'  he  could  ley  his  hands  on,  an'  run  awey  at  last  wi'  th' 


108  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

missis's  jewl-box.  They're  all  alaike,  them  furriners.  Itroons 
i'  th'  blood." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Sharp,  with  the  air  of  a  person  who  held 
liberal  views,  but  knew  where  to  draw  the  line, "  I'm  not  a- 
going  to  defend  the  furriners,  for  I've  as  good  reason  to  know 
what  they  are  as  most  folks,  an'  nobody'll  ever  hear  me  say 
but  what  they're  next  door  to  heathens,  and  the  hile  they  eat 
wi'  their  victuals  is  enough  to  turn  any  Christian's  stomach. 
But  for  all  that — an'  for  all  as  the  trouble  in  respect  o'  wash- 
in'  and  managin'  has  fell  upo'  me  through  the  journey — I  can't 
say  but  what  I  think  as  my  Lady  an'  Sir  Cristifer's  done  a 
right  thing  by  a  hinnicent  child  as  doesn't  know  its  right 
hand  from  its  left,  i'  bringing  it  where  it'll  learn  to  speak 
summat  better  nor  gibberish,  and  be  brought  up  i'  the  true 
religion.  For  as  for  them  furrin  churches  as  Sir  Cristifer 
is  so  unaccountable  mad  after,  wi'  pictures  o'  men  an'  wom- 
en a-showing  themselves  just  for  all  the  world  as  God 
made  'em,  I  think,  for  my  part,  as  it's  almost  a  sin  to  go 
into  'em." 

"  You're  likely  to  have  more  foreigners,  however,"  said  Mr. 
Warren,  who  liked  to  provoke  the  gardener,  "  for  Sir  Chris- 
topher has  engaged  some  Italian  workmen  to  help  in  the  alter- 
ations in  the  house." 

"  Olterations !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bellamy,  in  alarm.  "  What 
olterations  ?" 

"  Why,"  answered  Mr.  Warren,  "  Sir  Christopher,  as  I  un- 
derstand, is  going  to  make  a  new  thing  of  the  old  Manor- 
house,  both  inside  and  out.  And  he's  got  portfolios  full  of 
plans  and  pictures  coming.  It  is  to  be  cased  with  stone,  in 
the  Gothic  style — pretty  near  like  the  churches,  you  know, 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out ;  and  the  ceilings  are  to  be  beyond 
any  thing  that's  been  seen  in  the  country.  Sir  Christopher's 
been  giving  a  deal  of  study  to  it." 

"  Dear  heart  alive  !"  said  Mrs.  Bellamy,  "  we  shall  be 
pisoned  wi'  lime  an'  plaster,  an'  hev  the  house  full  o'  work- 
men colloguing  wi'  the  maids,  an'  makin'  no  end  o'  mischief." 

"  That  ye  may  ley  your  life  on,  Mrs.  Bellamy,"  said  Mr. 
Bates.  "  Howiver,  I'll  noot  denay  that  the  Goothic  stayle's 
prithy  anoof,  an'  it's  woonderful  how  near  them  stoon-carvers 
cuts  oot  the  shapes  o'  the  pineapples,  an'  shamrucks,  an' 
rooses.  I  dare  sey  Sir  Cristifer'll  meek  a  naice  thing  o'  the 
Manor,  an'  there  woon't  be  many  gentlemen's  houses  i'  the 
coonthry  as'll  coom  up  to't,  wi'  sich  a  garden  an'  pleasure- 
groons  an'  wall-fruit  as  King  George  maight  be  prdod  on." 

"  Well,  I  can't  think  as  the  house  can  be  better  nor  it  is, 
Gothic  or  no  Gothic,"  said  Mrs,  Bellamy  ;  "  an'  I've  done  the 


MB.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STOKY.  109 

picklin'  and  preservin'  in  it  fourteen  year  Michaelmas  was  a 
three  weeks.  But  what  does  my  lady  say  to't  ?" 

"  My  lady  knows  better  than  cross  Sir  Cristifer  in  what 
he's  set  his  mind  on,"  said  Mr.  Bellamy,  who  objected  to  the 
critical  tone  of  the  conversation.  "  Sir  Cristifer'll  hev  his  own 
way,  that  you  may  tek  your  oath.  An'  i'  the  right  on't  too. 
He's  a  gentleman  born,  an's  got  the  money.  But  come,  Me$- 
ter  Bates,  fill  your  glass,  an'  we'll  drink  health  an'  happiness 
to  his  honor  an'  my  lady,  and  then  you  shall  give  us  a  song. 
Sir  Cristifer  doesn't  come  hum  from  Italy  ivery  night." 

This  demonstrable  position  was  accepted  without  hesita- 
tion as  ground  for  a  toast ;  but  Mr.  Bates,  apparently  think- 
ing that  his  song  was  not  an  equally  reasonable  sequence, 
ignored  the  second  part  of  Mr.  Bellamy's  proposal.  So  Mrs. 
Sharp,  who  had  been  heard  to  say  that  she  had  no  thoughts 
at  all  of  marrying  Mr.  Bates,  though  he  was  "  a  sensable,  fresh- 
colored  man  as  many  a  woman  'ud  snap  at  for  a  husband," 
enforced  Mr.  Bellamy's  appeal. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Bates,  let  us  hear  '  Roy's  Wife.'  I'd  rether 
hear  a  good  old  song  like  that,  nor  all  the  fine  Italian  tood- 
lin." 

Mr.  Bates,  urged  thus  flatteringly,  stuck  his  thumbs  into 
the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair 
with  his  head  in  that  position  in  which  he  could  look  directly 
towards  the  zenith,  and  struck  up  a  remarkably  staccato 
rendering  of  "  Roy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch."  This  melody  may 
certainly  be  taxed  with  excessive  iteration,  but  that  was  pre- 
cisely its  highest  recommendation  to  the  present  audience, 
who  found  it  all  the  easier  to  swell  the  chorus.  Nor  did  it  at 
all  diminish  their  pleasure  that  the  only  particular  concerning 
"Roy's  Wife,"  which  Mr.  Bates's  enunciation  allowed  them 
to  gather,  was  that  she  "  chated  "  him, — whether  in  the  mat- 
ter of  garden  stuff  or  of  some  other  commodity,  or  why  her 
name  should,  in  consequence,  be  repeatedly  reiterated  with 
exultation,  remaining  an  agreeable  mystery. 

Mr.  Bates's  song  formed  the  climax  of  the  evening's  good- 
fellowship,  and  the  party  soon  after  dispersed — Mrs.  Bellamy 
perhaps  to  dream  of  quicklime  flying  among  her  preserving- 
pans,  or  of  love-sick  housemaids  reckless  of  unswept  corners 
— and  Mrs.  Sharp  to  sink  into  pleasant  visions  of  independent 
house-keeping  in  Mr.  Bates's  cottage,  with  no  bells  to  answer, 
and  with  fruit  and  vegetables  ad  libitum. 

Caterina  soon  conquered  all  prejudices  against  her  foreign 
blood ;  for  what  prejudices  will  hold  out  against  helplessness 
and  broken  prattle  ?  She  became  the  pet  of  the  household, 
thrusting  Sir  Christopher's  favorite  bloodhound  of  that  day, 


110  SCENES    OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Mrs.  Bellamy's  two  canaries,  and  Mr.  Bates's  largest  Dorking 
nen,  into  a  merely  secondary  position.  The  consequence  was, 
that  in  the  space  of  a  summer's  day  she  went  through  a  great 
cycle  of  experiences,  commencing  with  the  somewhat  acidu- 
lated good-will  of  Mrs.  Sharp's  nursery  discipline.  Then  came 
the  grave  luxury  of  her  ladyship's  sitting-room,  and,  perhaps, 
the  dignity  of  a  ride  on  Sir  Christopher's  knee,  sometimes 
followed  by  a  visit  with  him  to  the  stables,  where  Caterina 
soon  learned  to  hear  without  crying  the  baying  of  the  chain- 
ed bloodhounds,  and  say,  with  ostentatious  bravery,  clinging 
to  Sir  Christopher's  leg  all  the  while,  "  Dey  not  hurt  Tina." 
Then  Mrs.  Bellamy  would  perhaps  be  going  out  to  gather  the 
rose-leaves  and  lavender,  and  Tina  was  made  proud  and  hap- 
py by  being  allowed  to  carry  a  handful  in  her  pinafore  ;  hap- 
pier still,  when  they  were  spread  out  on  sheets  to  dry,  so  that 
she  could  sit  down  like  a  frog  among  them,  and  have  them 
poured  over  her  in  fragrant  showers.  Another  frequent  pleas- 
ure was  to  take  a  journey  with  Mr.  Bates  through  the  kitchen- 
gardens  and  the  hothouses,  where  the  rich  bunches  of  green 
and  purple  grapes  hung  from  the  roof,  far  out  of  reach  of  the 
tiny  yellow  hand  that  could  not  help  stretching  itself  out  to- 
wards them ;  though  the  hand  was  sure  at  last  to  be  satisfied 
with  some  delicate-flavored  fruit  or  sweet-scented  flower.  In- 
deed, in  the  long,  monotonous  leisure  of  that  great  country- 
house,  you  may  be  sure  there  was  always  some  one  who  had 
nothing  better  to  do  than  to  play  with  Tina.  So  that  the 
little  southern  bird  had  its  northern  nest  lined  with  tender- 
ness, and  caresses,  and  pretty  things.  A  loving  sensitive  na- 
ture was  too  likely,  under  such  nurture,  to  have  its  suscepti- 
bility heightened  into  unfitness  for  an  encounter  with  any 
harder  experience  ;  all  the  more,  because  there  were  gleams 
of  fierce  resistance  to  any  discipline  that  had  a  harsh  or  un- 
loving aspect.  For  the  only  thing  in  which  Caterina  showed 
any  precocity  was  a  certain  ingemiity  in  vindictiveness. 
When  she  was  five  years  old  she  had  revenged  herself  for  an 
unpleasant  prohibition  by  pouring  the  ink  into  Mrs.  Sharp's 
work-basket;  and  once,  when  Lady  Cheverel  took  her  doll 
from  her,  because  she  was  affectionately  licking  the  paint  off 
its  face,  the  little  minx  straightway  climbed  on  a  chair  and 
threw  down  a  flower-vase  that  stood  on  a  bracket.  This  was 
almost  the  only  instance  in  which  her  anger  overcame  her 
awe  of  Lady  Cheverel,  who  had  the  ascendency  always  be- 
longing to  kindness  that  never  melts  into  caresses,  and  is  se- 
verely but  uniformly  beneficent. 

By-and-by  the  happy  monotony  of  Cheverel  Manor  was 
broken  in  upon  in  tb«»  way  Mr.  Warren  had  announced.    The 


MR.  GILFIL'S   LOVE-STORY.  Ill 

roads  through  the  park  were  cut  up  by  wagons  carrying 
loads  of  stone  from  a  neighboring  quarry,  the  green  court- 
yard became  dusty  with  lime,  and  the  peaceful  house  rang 
with  the  sound  of  tools.  For  the  next  ten  years  Sir  Christo- 
pher was  occupied  with  the  architectural  metamorphosis  of 
his  old  family  mansion ;  thus  anticipating,  through  the 
prompting  of  his  individual  taste,  that  general  reaction  from 
the  insipid  imitation  of  the  Palladian  style,  towards  a  restora- 
tion of  the  Gothic,  which  marked  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  This  was  the  object  he  had  set  his  heart  on,  with 
a  singleness  of  determination  which  was  regarded  with  not  a 
little  contempt  by  his  fox-hunting  neighbors,  who  wondered 
greatly  that  a  man  with  some  of  the  best  blood  in  England  in 
his  veins,  should  be  mean  enough  to  economize  in  his  cellar, 
and  reduce  his  stud  to  two  old  coach-horses  and  a  hack,  for 
the  sake  of  riding  a  hobby,  and  playing  the  architect.  Their 
wives  did  not  see  so  much  to  blame  in  the  matter  of  the  eel- 
lars  and  stables,  but  they  were  eloquent  in  pity  for  poor  Lady 
Cheverel,  who  had  to  live  in  no  more  than  three  rooms  at 
once,  and  who  must  be  distracted  with  noises,  and  have  her 
constitution  undermined  by  unhealthy  smells.  It  was  as  bad 
as  having  a  husband  with  an  asthma  Why  did  not  Sir  Chris- 
topher take  a  house  for  her  at  Bath,  or,  at  least,  if  he  must 
spend  his  time  in  overlooking  workmen,  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Manor  ?  This  pity  was  quite  gratuitous, 
as  the  most  plentiful  pity  always  is ;  for  though  Lady  Chev- 
erel did  not  share  her  husband's  architectural  enthusiasm,  she 
had  too  rigorous  a  view  of  a  wife's  duties,  and  too  profound 
a  deference  for  Sir  Christopher,  to  regard  submission  as  a 
grievance.  As  for  Sir  Christopher,  he  was  perfectly  indiffer- 
ent to  criticism.  "An  obstinate,  crotchety  man,"  said  his 
neighbors.  But  I,  who  have  seen  Cheverel  Manor,  as  he  be- 
queathed it  to  his  heirs,  rather  attribute  that  unswerving 
architectural  purpose  of  his,  conceived  and  carried  out  through 
long  years  ot  systematic  personal  exertion,  to  something  of 
the  fervor  of  genius,  as  well  as  inflexibility  of  will ;  and  in 
walking  through  those  rooms,  with  their  splendid  ceilings 
and  their  meagre  furniture,  which  tell  how  all  the  Spare  mon- 
ey had  been  absorbed  before  personal  comfort  was  thought 
of,  I  have  felt  that  there  dwelt  in  this  old  English  baronet 
some  of  that  sublime  spirit  which  distinguishes  art  from  lux- 
ury, and  worships  beauty  apart  from  self-indulgence. 

While  Cheverel  Manor  was  growing  from  ugliness  into 
beauty,  Caterina  too  was  growing  from  a  little  yellow  bant- 
ling into  a  whiter  maiden,  with  no  positive  beauty  indeed,  but 
with  a  certain  light  airy  grace,  which,  with  her  large  appeal- 


112  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ing  dark  eyes,  and  a  voice  that,  in  its  low-toned  tenderness,  re- 
called the  love-notes  of  the  stock-dove,  gave  her  a  more  than 
usual  charm.  Unlike  the  building,  however,  Caterina's  devel- 
opment was  the  result  of  no  systematic  or  careful  appliances. 
She  grew  up  very  much  like  the  primroses,  which  the  garden- 
er is  not  sorry  to  see  within  his  enclosure,  but  takes  no  pains 
to  cultivate.  Lady  Cheverel  taught  her  to  read  and  write, 
and  say  her  catechism ;  Mr.  Warren,  being  a  good  account- 
ant, gave  her  lessons  in  arithmetic,  by  her  ladyship's  desire ; 
and  Mrs.  Sharp  initiated  her  in  all  the  mysteries  of  the  needle. 
But,  for  a  long  time,  there  was  no  thought  of  giving  her  any 
more  elaborate  education.  It  is  very  likely  that  to  her  dy- 
ing day  Caterina  thought  the  earth  stood  still,  and  that  the 
sun  and  stara  moved  round  it ;  but  so,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
did  Helen,  and  Dido,  and  Desdemona,  and  Juliet ;  whence  I 
hope  you  will  not  think  my  Caterina  less  worthy  to  be  a  he- 
roine on  that  account.  The  truth  is,  that,  with  one  exception, 
her  only  talent  lay  in  loving ;  and  there,  it  is  probable,  the 
most  astronomical  of  women  could  not  have  surpassed  her. 
Orphan  and  protegee  though  she  was,  this  supreme  talent  of 
hers  found  plenty  of  exercise  at  Cheverel  Manor,  and  Cateri- 
na had  more  people  to  love  than  many  a  small  lady  and  gen- 
tleman affluent  in  silver  mugs  and  blood  relations.  I  think 
the  first  place  in  her  childish  heart  was  given  to  Sir  Christo- 
pher, for  little  girls  are  apt  to  attach  themselves  to  the  finest 
looking  gentleman  at  hand,  especially  as  he  seldom  has  any 
thing  to  do  with  discipline.  Next  to  the  Baronet,  came  Dor- 
cas, the  merry  rosy-cheeked  damsel  who  was  Mrs.  Sharp's 
lieutenant  in  the  nursery,  and  thus  played  the  part  of  the  rai- 
sins in  a  dose  of  senna.  It  was  a  black  day  for  Caterina 
when  Dorcas  married  the  coachman,  and  went,  with  a  great 
sense  of  elevation  in  the  world,  to  preside  over  a  "  public  "  in 
the  noisy  town  of  Sloppeter.  A  little  china-box,  bearing  the 
motto  "  Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,"  which  Dorcas 
sent  her  as  a  remembrance,  was  among  Caterina's  treasures 
ten  years  after. 

The  one  other  exceptional  talent,  you  already  guess,  was 
music.  When  the  fact  that  Caterina  had  a  remarkable  ear 
for  music,  and  a  still  more  remarkable  voice,  attracted  Lady 
Cheverel's  notice,  the  discovery  was  very  welcome  both  to 
her  and  Sir  Christopher.  Her  musical  education  became  at 
once  an  object  of  interest.  Lady  Cheverel  devoted  much 
time  to  it;  and  the  rapidity  of  Tina's  progress  surpassing  all 
hopes,  an  Italian  singing-master  was  engaged  for  several 
years,  to  spend  some  months  together  at  Cheverel  Manor. 
This  unexpected  gift  made  a  great  alteration  in  Caterina's 


MF.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  113 

position.  After  those  first  years  in  which  little  girls  are  pet' 
ted  like  puppies  and  kittens,  there  comes  a  time  when  it 
seems  less  obvious  what  they  can  be  good  for,  especially 
when,  like  Caterina,  they  give  no  particular  promise  of  clev- 
erness or  beauty ;  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  in  that  unin- 
teresting period  there  was  no  particular  plan  formed  as  to 
her  future  position.  She  could  always  help  Mrs.  Sharp,  sup- 
posing she  were  fit  for  nothing  else,  as  she  grew  up ;  but  now 
this  rare  gift  of  song  endeared  her  to  Lady  Cheverel,  who 
loved  music  above  all  things,  and  it  associated  her  at  once 
with  the  pleasures  of  the  drawing-room.  Insensibly  she  came 
to  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  family,  and  the  servants  began 
to  understand  that  Miss  Sarti  was  to  be  a  lady,  after  all. 

"  And  the  raight  on't  too,"  said  Mr.  Bates,  "  for  she  hasn't 
the  cut  of  a  gell  as  must  work  for  her  bread ;  she's  as  nesh 
an'  dilicate  as  a  paich-blossom — welly  laike  a  linnet,  wi'  on'y 
joost  body  anoof  to  hold  her  voice." 

But  long  before  Tina  had  reached  this  stage  of  her  history, 
a  new  era  had  begun  for  her,  in  the  arrival  of  a  younger  com- 
panion than  any  she  had  hitherto  known.  When  she  was  no 
more  than  seven,  a  ward  of  Sir  Christopher's- — a  lad  of  fifteen, 
Maynard  Gilfil  by  name — began  to  spend  his  vacations  at 
Cheverel  Manor,  and  found  there  no  playfellow  so  much  to 
his  mind  as  Caterina.  Maynard  was  an  affectionate  lad,  who 
retained  a  propensity  to  white  rabbits,  pet  squirrels,  and  guin- 
ea-pigs, perhaps  a  little  beyond  the  age  at  which  young  gen- 
tlemen usually  look  down  on  such  pleasures  as  puerile.  He  was 
also  much  given  to  fishing,  and  to  carpentry,  considered  as  a 
fine  art,  without  any  base  view  to  utility.  And  in  all  these 
pleasures  it  was  his  delight  to  have  Caterina  as  his  compan- 
ion, to  call  her  little  pet  names,  answer  her  wondering  ques- 
tions, and  have  her  toddling  after  him  as  you  may  have  seen  a 
Blenheim  spaniel  trotting  after  a  large  setter.  Whenever 
Maynard  went  back  to  school,  there  was  a  little  scene  of  part- 
ing. 

"  You  won't  forget  me,  Tina,  before  I  come  back  again  ? 
I  shall  leave  you  all  the  whip-cord  we've  made;  and  don't 
you  let  Guinea  die.  Come,  give  me  a  kiss,  and  promise  not 
to  forget  me." 

As  the  years  wore  on,  and  Maynard  passed  from  school  to 
college,  and  from  a  slim  lad  to  a  stalwart  young  man,  their 
companionship  in  the  vacations  necessarily  took  a  different 
foi-m,  but  it  retained  a  brotherly  and  sisterly  familiarity. 
With  Maynard  the  boyish  affection  had  insensibly  grown 
into  ardent  love.  Among  all  the  many  kinds  of  first  love, 
that  which  begins  in  childish  companionship  is  the  strongest 


114  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

and  most  enduring :  when  passion  comes  to  unite  its  force  to 
long  affection,  love  is  at  its  spring-tide.  And  Maynard  Gil- 
fil'e  love  was  of  a  kind  to  make  him  prefer  being  tormented 
by  Caterina  to  any  pleasure,  apart  from  her,  which  the  most 
benevolent  magician  could  have  devised  for  him.  It  is  the 
way  with  those  tall  large-limbed  men,  from  Samson  down- 
ward. As  for  Tina,  the  little  minx  was  perfectly  well  aware 
that  Maynard  was  her  slave ;  he  was  the  one  person  in  the 
world  whom  she  did  as  she  pleased  with ;  and  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  this  was  a  symptom  of  her  being  perfectly  heart- 
whole  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  :  for  a  passionate  woman's 
love  is  always  overshadowed  by  fear. 

Maynard  Gilfil  did  not  deceive  "himself  in  his  interpreta- 
tion of  Caterina's  feelings,  but  he  nursed  the  hope  that  some 
time  or  other  she  would  at  least  care  enough  for  him  to  ac- 
cept his  love.  So  he  waited  patiently  for  the  day  when  he 
might  venture  to  say, "  Caterina,  I  love  you  !"  You  see,  he 
would  have  been  content  with  very  little,  being  one  of  those 
men  who  pass  through  life  without  making  the  least  clamor 
about  themselves  ;  thinking  neither  the  cut  of  his  coat,  nor 
the  flavor  of  his  soup,  nor  the  precise  depth  of  a  servant's 
bow,  at  all  momentous.  He  thought — foolishly  enough,  as 
lovers  will  think — that  it  was  a  good  augury  for  him  when 
he  came  to  be  domesticated  at  Cheverel  Manor  in  the  quali- 
ty of  chaplain  there,  and  curate  of  a  neighboring  parish ; 
judging  falsely,  from  his  own  case,  that  habit  and  affection 
were  the  likeliest  avenues  to  love.  Sir  Christopher  satisfied 
several  feelings  in  installing  Maynard  as  chaplain  in  his 
house.  He  liked  the  old-fashioned  dignity  of  that  domestic 
appendage  ;  he  liked  his  ward's  companionship  ;  and,  as  May- 
nard had  some  private  fortune,  he  might  take  life  easily  in 
that  agreeable  home,  keeping  his  hunter,  and  observing  a 
mild  regimen  of  clerical  duty,  until  the  Cumbermoor  living 
should  fall  in,  when  he  might  be  settled  for  life  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  manor.  "  With  Caterina  for  a  wife,  too,'* 
Sir  Christopher  soon  began  to  think ;  for  though  the  good 
Baronet  was  not  at  all  quick  to  suspect  what  was  unpleasant 
and  opposed  to  his  views  of  fitness,  he  was  quick  to  see  what 
would  dovetail  with  his  own  plans  ;  and  he  had  first  guessed, 
and  then  ascertained  by  direct  inquiry,  the  state  of  Maynard's 
feelings.  He  at  once  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  Caterina 
was  of  the  same  mind,  or  at  least  would  be,  when  she  was  old 
enough.  But  these  were  too  early  days  for  any  thing  defi- 
nite to  be  said  or  done. 

Meanwhile,  new  circumstances  were  arising,  which,  though 
they  made  no  change  in  Sir  Christopher's  plans  and  pros- 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  115 

pects,  converted  Mr.  Gilfil's  hopes  into  anxieties,  and  made  it 
clear  to  him  not  only  that  Caterina's  heart  was  never  likely 
to  be  his,  but  that  it  was  given  entirely  to  another. 

Once  or  twice  in  Caterina's  childhood,  there  had  been  an- 
other boy-visitor  at  the  manor,  younger  than  Maynard  Gilfil 
— a  beautiful  boy  with  brown  curls  and  splendid  clothes, 
on  whom  Caterina  had  looked  with  shy  admiration.  This 
was  Anthony  Wybrow,  the  son  of  Sir  Christopher's  younger 
sister,  and  chosen  heir  of  Cheverel  Manor.  The  Baronet  had 
gacrificed  a  large  sum,  arid  even  straitened  the  resources  by 
which  he  was  to  carry  out  his  architectural  schemes,  for  the 
sake  of  removing  the  entail  from  his  estate,  and  making  this 
boy  his  heir — moved  to  the  step,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  by  an 
implacable  quarrel  with  his  elder  sister;  for  a  power  of  for- 
giveness was  not  among  Sir  Christopher's  virtues.  At  length, 
on  the  death  of  Anthony's  mother,  when  he  was  no  longer  a 
curly-headed  boy,  but  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  captain's  com- 
mission, Cheverel  Manor  became  his  home  too,  whenever  he 
was  absent  from  his  regiment.  Caterina  was  then  a  little 
woman,  between  sixteen  and  seventeen,  and  I  need  not  spend 
many  words  in  explaining  what  you  perceive  to  be  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world. 

There  was  little  company  kept  at  the  Manor,  and  Captain 
Wybrow  would  have  been  much  duller  if  Caterina  had  not 
been  there.  It  was  pleasant  to  pay  her  attentions — to  speak 
to  her  in  gentle  tones,  to  see  her  little  flutter  of  pleasure,  the 
blush  that  just  lit  up  her  pale  cheek,  and  the  momentary  tim- 
id glance  of  her  dark  eyes,  when  he  praised  her  singing,  lean- 
ing at  her  side  over  the  piano.  Pleasant,  too,  to  cut  out 
that  chaplain  with  his  large  calves !  What  idle  man  can 
withstand  the  temptation  of  a  woman  to  fascinate,  and  an- 
other man  to  eclipse  ? — especially  when  it  is  quite  clear  to 
himself  that  he  means  no  mischief,  and  shall  leave  every  thing 
to  come  I'ight  again  by-and-by.  At  the  end  of  eighteen 
months,  however,  during  which  Captain  Wybrow  had  spent 
much  of  his  time  at  the  Manor,  he  found  that  matters  had 
reached  a  point  which  he  had  not  at  all  contemplated.  Gen- 
tle tones  had  led  to  tender  Avords,  and  tender  words  had 
called  forth  a  response  of  looks  which  made  it  impossible  not 
to  carry  on  the  crescendo  of  love-making.  To  find  one's  self 
adored  by  a  little,  graceful, dark-eyed,  sweet-singing  woman, 
whom  no  one  need  despise,  is  an  agreeable  sensation,  compar- 
able to  smoking  the  finest  Latakia,  and  also  imposes  some  re- 
turn of  tenderness  as  a  duty. 

Perhaps  you  think  that  Captain  Wybrow,  who  knew  that 
it  would  be  ridiculous  to  dream  of  his  marrying  Caterina,  must 


116  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

have  been  a  reckless  libertine  to  win  her  affections  in  this  man- 
ner !  Not  at  all.  He  was  a  young  man  of  calm  passions,  who 
was  rarely  led  into  any  conduct  of  which  he  could  not  give  a 
plausible  account  to  himself;  and  the  tiny  fragile  Caterina 
was  a  woman  who  touched  the  imagination  and  the  affections 
rather  than  the  senses.  He  really  felt  very  kindly  towards 
her,  and  would  very  likely  have  loved  her — if  he  had  been 
able  to  love  any  one.  But  nature  had  not  endowed  him  with 
that  capability.  She  had  given  him  an  admirable  figure,  the 
whitest  of  hands,  the  most  delicate  of  nostrils,  and  a  large 
amount  of  serene  self-satisfaction ;  but,  as  if  to  save  such  a 
delicate  piece  of  work  from  any  risk  of  being  shattered,  she 
had  guarded  him  from  the  liability  to  a  strong  emotion.  There 
was  no  list  of  youthful  misdemeanors  on  record  against  him, 
and  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel  thought  him  the  best 
of  nephews,  the  most  satisfactory  of  heirs,  full  of  grateful  def- 
erence to  themselves,  and,  above  all  things,  guided  by  a  sense 
of  duty.  Captain  Wybrow  always  did  the  thing  easiest  and 
most  agreeable  to  him  from  a  sense  of  duty:  he  dressed  ex- 
pensively, because  it  was  a  duty  he  owed  to  his  position ; 
from  a  sense  of  duty  he  adapted  himself  to  Sir  Christopher's 
inflexible  will,  which  it  would  have  been  troublesome  as  well 
as  useless  to  resist ;  and,  being  of  a  delicate  constitution,  he 
took  care  of  his  health  from  a  sense  of  duty.  His  health  was 
the  only  point  on  w'hich  he  gave  anxiety  to  his  friends ;  and 
it  was  owing  to  this  that  Sir  Christopher  wished  to  see  his 
nephew  early  married,  the  more  so  as  a  match  after  the  Baron- 
et's own  heart  appeared  immediately  attainable.  Ajathony 
had  seen  and  admired  Mise  A&sher,  the  only  child  of  a  1:uly 
who  had  been  Sir  Christopher's  earliest  love,  but  who,  as 
things  will  happen  in  this  world,  had  married  another  baronet 
instead  of  him.  Miss  Assher's  father  was  now  dead,  and  she 
was  in  possession  of  a  pretty  estate.  If,  as  was  probable,  she 
should  prove  susceptible  to  the  merits  of  Anthony's  person 
and  character,  nothing  could  make  Sir  Christopher  so  happy 
as  to  see  a  marriage  which  might  be  expected  to  secure  the 
inheritance  of  Cheverel  Manor  from  getting  into  the  wrong 
hands.  Anthony  had  already  been  kindly  received  by  Lady 
Assher  as  the  nephew  of  her  early  friend  ;  why  should  he  not 
go  to  Bath,  where  she  and  her  daughter  were  then  residing, 
follow  up  the  acquaintance,  and  win  a  handsome,  well-born, 
and  sufficiently  wealthy  bride  ? 

Sir  Christopher's  wishes  were  communicated  to  his  nephew, 
who  at  once  intimated  his  willingness  to  comply  with  them — 
from  a  sense  of  duty.  Caterina  was  tenderly  informed  by  her 
lovep  of  the  sacrifice  demanded  from  them  both  j  and  three 


MB.  GILFIL'S   LOVE-STOKY,  117 

days  afterwards  occurred  the  parting  scene  you  have  witness- 
ed in  the  gallery,  on  the  eve  of  Captain  Wy brow's  departure 


for  Bath. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  inexorable  ticking  of  the  clock  is  like  the  throb  of 
pain  to  sensations  made  keen  by  a  sickening  fear.  And  so  it 
is  with  the  great  clockwork  of  nature.  Daisies  and  butter- 
cups give  way  to  the  brown  waving  grasses,  tinged  with  the 
warm  red  sorrel ;  the  waving  grasses  are  swept  away,  and  the 
meadows  lie  like  emeralds  set  in  the  bushy  hedgerows ;  the 
tawny-tipped  corn  begins  to  bow  with  the  weight  of  the  full 
ear;  the  reapers  are  bending  amongst  it, and  it  soon  stands 
in  sheaves  ^  then,  presently,  the  patches  of  yellow  stubble  lie 
side  by  side  with  streaks  of  dark-red  earth,  which  the  plough 
is  turning  up  in  preparation  for  the  new-threshed  seed.  And 
this  passage  from  beauty  to  beauty,  which  to  the  happy  is  like 
the  flow  of  a  melody,  measures  for  many  a  human  heart  the 
approach  of  foreseen  anguish — seems  hurrying  on  the  moment 
when  the  shadow  of  dread  will  be  followed  up  by  the  reality 
of  despair. 

How  cruelly  hasty  that  summer  of  1788  seemed  to  Cateri- 
na!  Surely  the  roses  vanished  earlier,  and  the  berries  on 
the  mountain-ash  were  more  impatient  to  redden,  and  bring 
on  the  autumn,  when  she  would  be  face  to  face  with  her  mis- 
ery, and  witness  Anthony  giving  all  his  gentle  tones,  tender 
words,  and  soft  looks  to  another. 

Before  the  end  of  July,  Captain  Wybrow  had  written 
word  that  Lady  Assher  and  her  daughter  were  about  to  fly 
from  the  heat  and  gayety  of  Bath  to  the  shady  quiet  of 
their  place  at  Farleigh,  and  that  he  was  invited  to  join  the 
party  there.  His  letters  implied  that  he  was  on  an  excellent 
footing  with  both  the  ladies,  and  gave  no  hint  of  a  rival ;  so 
that  Sir  Christopher  was  more  than  usually  bright  and  cheer- 
ful after  reading  them.  At  length,  towards  the  close  of  Au- 
gust, came  the  announcement  that  Captain  Wybrow  was  an 
accepted  lover,  and  after  much  complimentary  and  congrat- 
ulatory correspondence  between  the  two  families,  it  was  un- 
derstood that  in  September  Lady  Assher  and  her  daughter 
would  pay  a  visit  to  Cheverel  Manor,  when  Beatrice  would 
make  the  acquaintance  of  her  future  relatives,  and  all  need- 
ful arrangements  could  be  discussed.  Captain  Wybrow 


118  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

would  remain  at  Farleigh  till  then,  and  accompany  the  ladies 
on  their  journey. 

In  the  interval,  every  one  at  Cheverel  Manor  had  some- 
thing to  do  by  way  of  preparing  for  the  visitors.  Sir  Chris- 
topher was  occupied  in  consultations  with  his  steward  and 
lawyer,  and  in  giving  orders  to  every  one  else,  especially  in 
spurring  on  Francesco  to  finish  the  saloon.  Mr.  Gilfil  had 
the  responsibility  of  procuring  a  lady's  horse,  Miss  Assher 
being  a  great  rider.  Lady  Cheverel  had  unwonted  calls  to 
make  and  invitations  to  deliver.  Mr.  Bates's  turf,  and  grav- 
el, and  flower-beds  were  always  at  such  a  point  of  neatness 
and  finish  that  nothing  extraordinary  could  be  done  in  the 
garden,  except  a  little  extraordinary  scolding  of  the  under- 
gardener,  and  this  addition  Mr.  Bates  did  not  neglect. 

Happily  for  Caterina,  she  too  had  her  task,  to  fill  up  the 
long  dreary  daytime:  it  was  to  finish  a  chair-cushion  which 
would  complete  the  set  of  embroidered  covers  for  the  draw- 
ing-room, Lady  CheverePs  year-long  work,  and  the  only  note- 
worthy bit  of  furniture  in  the  Manor.  Over  this  embroidery 
she  sat  with  cold  lips  and  a  palpitating  heart,  thankful  that 
this  miserable  sensation  throughout  the  daytime  seemed  to 
counteract  the  tendency  to  tears  which  returned  with  night 
and  solitude.  She  was  most  frightened  when  Sir  Christo- 
pher approached  her.  The  Baronet's  eye  was  brighter  and 
his  step  more  elastic  than  ever,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
only  the  most  leaden  or  churlish  souls  could  be  otherwise 
than  brisk  and  exulting  in  a  world  where  every  thing  went 
so  well.  Dear  old  gentleman  !  he  had  gone  through  life  a  lit- 
tle flushed  with  the  power  of  his  will,  and  now  his  latest  plan 
was  succeeding,  and  Cheverel  Manor  would  be  inherited  by 
a  grand-nephew,  whom  he  might  even  yet  Jive  to  see  a  fine 
young  fellow  with  at  least  the  down  on  his  chin.  Why  not  ? 
one  is  still  young  at  sixty. 

Sir  Christopher  had  always  something  playful  to  say  to 
Caterina. 

"  Now,  little  monkey,  you  must  be  in  your  best  voice ; 
you're  the  minstrel  of  the  Manor,  you  know,  and  be  sure  you 
have  a  pretty  gown  and  a  new  ribbon.  You  must  not  be 
dressed  in  russet,  though  you  are  a  singing  bird."  Or  per- 
haps, "  It  is  your  turn  to  be  courted  next,  Tina.  But  don't 
you  learn  any  naughty  proud  airs.  I  must  have  Maynard  let 
off  easily." 

Caterina's  affection  for  the  old  Baronet  helped  her  to  sum- 
mon up  a  smile  as  he  stroked  her  cheek  and  looked  at  her 
kindly,  but  that  was  the  moment  at  which  she  felt  it  most 
difficult  not  to  burst  out  crying.  Lady  Cheverel's  conversa- 


MB.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STOBY.  119 

tion  and  presence  were  less  trying ;  for  her  ladyship  felt  no 
more  than  calm  satisfaction  in  this  family  event ;  and  besides, 
she  was  further  sobered  by  a  little  jealousy  at  Sir  Christopher's 
anticipation  of  pleasure  in  seeing  Lady  Assher,  enshrined  in 
his  memory  as  a  mild-eyed  beauty  of  sixteen,  with  whom  he 
had  exchanged  locks  before  he  went  on  his  first  travels.  Lady 
Cheverel  would  have  died  rather  than  confess  it,  but  she 
couldn't  help  hoping  that  he  would  be  disappointed  in  Lady 
Assher,  and  rather  ashamed  of  having  called  her  so  charm- 
ing. 

Mr.  Gilfil  watched  Caterina  through  these  days  with  mixed 
feelings.  Her  suffering  went  to  his  heart ;  but,  even  for  her 
sake,  he  was  glad  that  a  love  which  could  never  come  to  good 
should  be  no  longer  fed  by  false  hopes ;  and  how  could  he 
help  saying  to  himself, "  Perhaps,  after  a  while,  Caterina  wrill 
be  tired  of  fretting  about  that  cold-hearted  puppy,  and 
then " 

At  length1  the  much-expected  day  arrived,  and  the  bright- 
est of  September  suns  was  lighting  up  the  yellowing  lime- 
trees,  as  about  five  o'clock  Lady  Assher's  carriage  drove  un- 
der the  portico.  Caterina,  seated  at  work  in  her  own  room, 
heard  the  rolling  of  the  wheels,  followed  presently  by  the 
opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  and  the  sound  of  voices  in  the 
corridors.  Remembering  that  the  dinner  hour  was  six,  and 
that  Lady  Cheverel  had  desired  her  to  be  in  the  drawing- 
room  early,  she  started  up  to  dress,  and  was  delighted  to  find 
herself  feeling  suddenly  brave  and  strong.  Curiosity  to  see 
Miss  Assher — the  thought  that  Anthony  was  in  the  house — 
the  wish  not  to  look  unattractive,  were  feelings  that  brought 
some  color  to  her  lips,  and  made  it  easy  to  attend  to  her  toi- 
lette. They  would  ask  her  to  sing  this  evening,  and  she 
would  sing  well.  Miss  Assher  should  not  think  her  utterly 
insignificant.  So  she  put  on  her  gray  silk  gown  and  her 
cherry-colored  ribbon  with  as  much  care  as  if  she  had  been 
herself  the  betrothed  ;  not  forgetting  the  pair  of  round  pearl 
ear-rings  which  Sir  Christopher  had  told  Lady  Cheverel  to 
give  her,  because  Tina's  little  ears  were  so  pretty. 

Quick  as  she  had  been,  she  found  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady 
Cheverel  in  the  drawing-room  chatting  with  Mr.  Gilfil,  and 
telling  him  how  handsome  Miss  Assher  was,  but  how  entire- 
ly unlike  her  mother — apparently  resembling  her  father 
only. 

"  Aha !"  said  Sir  Christopher,  as  he  turned  to  look  at  Cate- 
rina, "  what  do  you  think  of  this,  Maynard  ?  Did  you  ever  see 
Tina  look  so  pretty  before  ?  Why,  that  little  gray  gown  has 
been  made  out  of  a  bit  of  my  lady's,  hasn't  it  ?  It  doesn't 


120  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

take  any  thing  much  larger  than  a  pocket-handkerchief  to 
dress  the  little  monkey." 

Lady  Cheverel,  too,  serenely  radiant  in  the  assurance  a 
single  glance  had  given  her  of  Lady  Assher's  inferiority, 
smiled  approval,  and  Caterma  was  in  one  of  those  moods  of 
self-possession  and  indifference  which  come  as  the  ebb-tide 
between  the  struggles  of  passion.  She  retired  to  the  piano, 
and  busied  herself  with  arranging  her  music,  not  all  insensi- 
ble to  the  pleasure  of  being  looked  at  with  admiration  the 
while,  and  thinking  that,  the  next  time  the  door  opened  Cap- 
tain Wybrow  would  enter,  and  she  would  speak  to  him  quite 
cheerfully.  But  when  she  heard  him  come  in,  and  the  scent 
of  roses  floated  towards  her,  her  heart  gave  one  great  leap. 
She  knew  nothing  till  he  was  pressing  her  hand,  and  saying, 
in  the  old  easy  way,  "  Well,  Caterina,  how  do  you  do  ?  You 
look  quite  blooming." 

She  felt  her  cheeks  reddening  with  anger  that  he  could 
speak  and  look  with  such  perfect  nonchalance.  Ah !  he  was 
too  deeply  in  love  with  some  one  else  to  remember  any  thing 
he  had  felt  for  her.  But  the  next  moment  she  was  conscious 
of  her  folly  ;  "  as  if  he  could  show  any  feeling  then!"  This 
conflict  of  emotions  stretched  into  a  long  interval  the  few 
moments  that  elapsed  before  the  door  opened  again,  and  her 
own  attention,  as  well  as  that  of  all  the  rest,  was  absorbed 
by  the  entrance  of  the  two  ladies. 

The  daughter  was  the  more  striking,  from  the  contrast  she 
presented  to  her  mother,  a  round-shouldered,  middle-sized 
woman,  who  had  once  had  the  transient  pink-and-white 
beauty  of  a  blonde,  with  ill-defined  features  and  early  embon- 
point. Miss  Assher  was  tall,  and  gracefully  though  substan- 
tially formed,  carrying  herself  with  an  air  of  mingled  gra- 
ciousness  and  self-coutidence  ;  her  dark-brown  hair,  untouclr 
ed  by  powder,  hanging  in  bushy  curls  round  her  face,  and  fall 
ing  behind  in  long  thick  ringlets  nearly  to  her  waist.  The 
brilliant  carmine  tint  of  her  well-rounded  cheeks,  and  the 
finely-cut  outline  of  her  straight  nose,  produced  an  impression 
of  splendid  beauty,  in  spite  of  commonplace  brown  eyes,  a 
narrow  forehead,  and  thin  lips.  She  was  in  mourning,  and 
the  dead  black  of  her  crape  dress,  relieved  here  and  there  by 
jet  ornaments,  gave  the  fullest  effect  to  her  complexion,  and 
to  the  rounded  whiteness  of  her  arms,  bare  from  the  elbow. 
The  first  coup  cFoeil  was  dazzling,  and  as  she  stood  looking 
down  with  a  gracious  smile  on  Caterina,  whom  Lady  Chev- 
erel was  presenting  to  her,  the  poor  little  thing  seemed  to 
herself  to  feel,  for  the  first  time,  all  the  folly  of  her  former 
1 1  ream. 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STOBY.  121 

"  "We  are  enchanted  with  your  place,  Sir  Christopher,'* 
said  Lady  Assher,  with  a  feeble  kind  of  pompousness,  which 
she  seemed  to  be  copying  from  some  one  else ;  "  I'm  sure 
your  nephew  must  have  thought  Farleigh  wretchedly  out  of 
order.  Poor  Sir  John  was  so  very  careless  about  keeping  up 
the  house  and  grounds.  I  often  talked  to  him  about  it,  but 
he  said, '  Pooh,  pooh  !  as  long  as  my  friends  find  a  good  din- 
ner and  a  good  bottle  of  wine,  they  won't  care  about  my 
ceilings  being  rather  smoky.'  He  was  so  very  hospitable, 
was  Sir  John." 

"I  think  the  view  of  the  house  from  the  park, just  after 
we  passed  the  bridge,  particularly  fine,"  said  Miss  Assher, 
interposing  rather  eagerly,  as  if  she  feared  her  mother  might 
be  making  infelicitous  speeches,  "  and  the  pleasure  of  the 
first  glimpse  was  all  the  greater  because  Anthony  would  de- 
scribe nothing  to  us  beforehand.  He  would  not  spoil  our 
first  imprqssions  by  raising  false  ideas.  I  long  to  go  over 
the  house,  Sir  Christopher,  and  learn  the  history  of  all  your 
architectural  designs,  which  Anthony  says  have  cost  you  so 
much  time  and  study." 

"  Take  care  how  you  set  an  old  man  talking  about  tho 
past,  my  dear,"  said  the  Baronet ;  "  I  hope  we  shall  find 
something  pleasanter  for  you  to  do  than  turning  over  my 
old  plans  and  pictures.  Our  friend  Mr.  Gilfil  here  has  found 
a  beautiful  mare  for  you,  and  you  can  scour  the  country  to 
your  heart's  content.  Anthony  has  sent  us  word  what  a 
horsewoman  you  are." 

Miss  Assher  turned  to  Mr.  Gilfil  with  her  most  beaming 
smile,  and  expressed  her  thanks  with  the  elaborate  gracious- 
ness  of  a  person  who  means  to  be  thought  charming,  and  is 
sure  of  success. 

"  Pray  do  not  thank  me,"  said  Mr.  Gilfil, "  till  you  have 
tried  the  mare.  She  has  been  ridden  by  Lady  Sara  Linter 
for  the  last  two  years ;  but  one  lady's  taste  may  not  be  like 
another's  in  horses,  any  more  than  in  other  matters." 

While  this  conversation  was  passing,  Captain  Wybrow 
was  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  contenting  himself  with 
responding  from  under  his  indolent  eyelids  to  the  glances 
Miss  Assher  was  constantly  directing  towards  him  as  she 
spoke.  "  She  is  very  much  in  love  with  him,"  thought  Cat- 
erina.  But  she  was  relieved  that  Anthony  remained  passive 
in  his  attentions.  She  thought,  too,  that  he  was  looking  paler 
and  more  languid  than  usual.  "  If  he  didn't  love  her  very 
much — if  he  sometimes  thought  of  the  past  with  regret,  I 
think  I  could  bear  it  all,  and  be  glad  to  see  Sir  Christopher 
made  happy." 

fi 


122  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

During  dinner  there  was  a  little  incident  which  confirmed 
these  thoughts.  When  the  sweets  were  on  the  table,  there 
was  a  mould  of  jelly  just  opposite  Captain  Wybrow,  and 
being  inclined  to  take  some  himself,  he  first  invitod  Miss 
Assher,  who  colored,  and  said,  in  rather  a  sharper  key  than 
usual,  "Have  you  not  learned  by  this  time  that  I  never  take 
jelly?" 

"  Don't  you  ?"  said  Captain  Wybrow,  whose  perceptions 
were  not  acute  enough  for  him  to  notice  the  difference  of  a 
semitone.  "I  should  have  thought  you  were  fond  of  it. 
There  was  always  some  on  the  table  at  Farleigh,  I  think" 

"You  don't  seem  to  take  much  interest  in  my  likes  and 
dislikes." 

"  I'm  too  much  possessed  by  the  happy  thought  that  you 
like  me,"  was  the  ex  qfficio  reply,  in  silvery  tones. 

This  little  episode  was  unnoticed  by  every  one  but  Cate- 
rina. Sir  Christopher  was  listening  with  polite  attention  to 
Lady  Assher's  history  of  her  last  man-cook,  who  was  first-rate 
at  gravies,  and  for  that  reason  pleased  Sir  John — he  was  so 
particular  about  his  gravies,  was  Sir  John  :  and  so  they  kept 
the  mun  six  years  in  spite  of  his  bad  pastry.  Lady  Chever- 
el  and  Mr.  Gilfil  were  smiling  at  Rupert  the  bloodhound,  who 
had  pushed  his  great  head  under  his  master's  arm,  and  was 
taking  a  survey  of  the  dishes,  after  snuffing  at  the  contents 
of  the  Baronet's  plate. 

When  the  ladies  were  in  the  drawing-room  again,  Lady 
Assher  was  soon  deep  in  a  statement  to  Lady  Cheverel  of 
her  views  about  burying  people  in  woollen. 

"  To  be  sure,  you  must  have  a  woollen  dress,  because  it's 
iihe  law,  you  know ;  but  that  need  hinder  no  one  from  put- 
ting linen  underneath.  I  always  used  to  say,  '  If  Sir  John 
died  to-morrow,  I  would  bury  him  in  his  shirt ;'  and  I  did. 
And  let  me  advise  you  to  do  so  by  Sir  Christopher.  You 
never  saw  Sir  John,  Lady  Cheverel.  He  was  a  large  tall  man 
with  a  nose  just  like  Beatrice,  and  so  very  particular  about 
his  shirts." 

Miss  Assher,  meanwhile,  had  seated  herself  by  Caterina, 
and,  with  that  smiling  affability  which  seems  to  say, '  I  am 
really  not  at  all  proud,  though  you  might  expect  it  of  me," 
said, 

"  Anthony  tells  me  you  sing  so  very  beautifully.  I  hope 
we  shall  hear  you  this  evening." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Caterina  quietly,  without  smiling ;  "  I  al- 
ways sing  when  I'm  wanted  to  sing." 

"  I  envy  you  such  a  charming  talent.  Do  you  know,  I  have 
no  ear ;  I  can  not  hum  the  smallest  tune,  and  I  delight  in  mu- 


ME.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  123 

sic  so.  Is  it  not  unfortunate  ?  But  I  shall  have  quite  a  treat 
while  I  am  here ;  Captain  Wybrow  says  you  will  give  us  some 
music  every  day." 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  wouldn't  care  about  music  if 
you  had  no  ear,"  said  Caterina,  becoming  epigrammatic  by 
force  of  grave  simplicity. 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you  I  dote  on  it ;  and  Anthony  is  so  fond 
of  it ;  it  would  be  so  delightful  if  I  could  play  and  sing  to 
•him ;  though  he  says  he  likes  me  best  not  to  sing,  because  it 
doesn't  belong  to  his  idea  of  me.  What  style  of  music  do  you 
like  best  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  like  all  beautiful  music." 

"  And  are  you  as  fond  of  riding  as  of  music  ?" 

"  No ;  I  never  ride.     I  think  I  should  be  very  frightened." 

"  Oh  no  !  indeed  you  would  not,  after  a  little  practice.  I 
have  never  been  in  the  least  timid.  I  think  Anthony  is  more 
afraid  for  me  than  I  am  for  myself;  and  since  I  have  been  rid- 
ing with  him,  I  have  been  obliged  to  be  more  careful,  because 
he  is  so  nervous  about  me." 

Caterina  made  no  reply ;  but  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  wish 
she  would  go  away  and  not  talk  to  me.  She  only  wants  me 
to  admire  her  good-nature,  and  to  talk  about  Anthony." 

Miss  Assher  was  thinking  at  the  same  time, "  This  Miss 
Sarti  seems  a  stupid  little  thing.  Those  musical  people  often 
are.  -  But  she  is  prettier  than  I  expected  ;  Anthony  said  she 
was  not  pretty." 

Happily  at  this  moment  Lady  Assher  called  her  daughter's 
attention  to  the  embroidered  cushions,  and  Miss  Assher,  walk- 
ing to  the  opposite  sofa,  was  soon  in  conversation  with  Lady 
Cheverel  about  tapestry  and  embroidery  in  general,  while  her 
mother,  feeling  herself  superseded  there,  came  and  placed  her- 
self beside  Caterina. 

"  I  hear  you  are  the  most  beautiful  singer,"  was  of  course 
the  opening  remark.  "All  Italians  sing  so  beautifully.  I 
travelled  in  Italy  with  Sir  John  when  we  were  first  married, 
and  we  went  to  V  enice,  where  they  go  about  in  gondolas,  you 
know.  You  don't  wear  powder,  I  see.  No  more  will  Bea- 
trice ;  though  many  people  think  her  curls  would  look  all  the 
better  for  powder.  She  has  so  much  hair,  hasn't  she  ?  Our 
last  maid  dressed  it  much  better  than  this ;  but,  do  you  know, 
she  wore  Beatrice's  stockings  before  they  went  to  the  wash, 
and  we  couldn't  keep  her  after  that,  could  we  ?" 

Caterina,  accepting  the  question  as  a  mere  bit  of  rhetorical 
effect,  thought  it  superfluous  to  reply,  till  Lady  Assher  repeat- 
ed, "  Could  we,  now  ?"  as  if  Tina's  sanction  were  essential  to 
her  repose  of  mind.  After  a  faint  "  No,"  she  went  on. 


124  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

"  Maids  are  so  very  troublesome,  and  Beatrice  is  so  particu- 
lar, you  can't  imagine.  I  often  say  to  her, '  My  dear,  you  can't 
have  perfection.'  That  very  gown  she  has  on — to  be  sure,  it 
fits  her  beautifully  now — but  it  has  been  unmade  and  made 
up  again  twice.  But  she  is  like  poor  Sir  John — he  was  so 
very  particular  about  his  own  things,  was  Sir  John.  Is  Lady 
Cheverel  particular  ?" 

"  Rather.  But  Mrs.  Sharp  has  been  her  maid  twenty 
years." 

"  I  wish  there  was  any  chance  of  our  keeping  Griffin  twen- 
ty years.  But  I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  to  part  with  her 
because  her  health  is  so  delicate  ;  and  she  is  so  obstinate,  she 
will  not  take  bitters  as  I  want  her.  ybwlook  delicate,  now. 
Let  me  recommend  you  to  take  camomile  tea  in  a  morning, 
fasting.  Beatrice  is  so  strong  and  healthy,  she  never  takes 
any  medicine ;  but  if  I  had  had  twenty  girls,  and  they  had 
been  delicate,  I  should  have  given  them  all  camomile  tea.  It 
strengthens  the  constitution  beyond  any  thing.  Now,  will 
you  promise  me  to  take  camomile  tea  ?" 

"  Thank  you  ;  I'm  not  at  all  ill,"  said  Caterina.  "  I've  al- 
ways been  pale  and  thin." 

Lady  Assher  was  sure  camomile  tea  would  make  all  the 
difference  in  the  world — Caterina  must  see  if  it  wouldn't — 
and  then  went  dribbling  on  like  a  leaky  shower-bath,  until 
the  early  entrance  of  the  gentlemen  created  a  diversion,  and 
she  fastened  on  Sir  Christopher,  who  probably  began  to  think 
that,  for  poetical  purposes,  it  would  be  better  not  to  meet  one's 
first  love  again,  after  a  lapse  of  forty  years. 

Captain  Wybrow,  of  course,  joined  his  aunt  and  Miss  As- 
sher, and  Mr.  Gilfil  tried  to  relieve  Caterina  from  the  awkward- 
ness of  sitting  aloof  and  dumb,  by  telling  her  how  a  friend 
of  his  had  broken  his  arm  and  staked  his  horse  that  morning, 
not  at  all  appearing  to  heed  that  she  hardly  listened,  and  was 
looking  towards  the  other  side  of  the  room.  One  of  the  tor- 
tures of  jealousy  is,  that  it  can  never  turn  away  its  eyes  from 
the  thing  that  pains  it. 

By-and-by  every  one  felt  the  need  of  a  relief  from  chit-chat 
— Sir  Christopher  perhaps  the  most  of  all — and  it  was  he  who 
made  the  acceptable  proposition — 

"  Come,  Tina,  are  we  to  have  no  music  to-night  before  we 
sit  down  to  cards  ?  Your  ladyship  plays  at  cards,  I  think  ?" 
lie  added,  recollecting  himself,  and  turning  to  Lady  Assher. 

"  Oh  yes  !  Poor  dear  Sir  John  would  have  a  whist-table 
every  night." 

Caterina  sat  down  to  the  harpischord  at  once,  and  had  no 
Booner  begun  to  sing  than  she  perceived  with  delight  that 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  125 

Captain  Wybrow  was  gliding  towards  the  harpischord,  and 
soon  standing  in  the  old  place.  This  consciousness  gave  fresh 
strength  to  her  voice  ;  and  when  she  noticed  that  Miss  Assher 
presently  followed  him  with  that  air  of  ostentatious  admira- 
tion which  belongs  to  the  absence  of  real  enjoyment,  her  clos- 
ing bravura  was  none  the  worse  for  being  animated  by  a  lit- 
tle triumphant  contempt. 

"  Why,  you  are  in  better  voice  than  ever,  Caterina,"  said 
Captain  \V  ybrow,  when  she  had  ended.  "  This  is  rather  dif- 
ferent from  Miss  Hibbert's  small  piping  that  we  used  to  be 
glad  of  at  Farleigh,  is  it  not,  Beatrice  ?" 

"  Indeed  it  is.  You  are  a  most  enviable  creature,  Miss  Sarti 
— Caterina — may  I  call  you  Caterina?  for  I  have  heard  An- 
thony speak  of  you  so  often,  I  seem  to  know  you  quite  well. 
You  will  let  me  call  you  Caterina?" 

"  Oh  yes,  every  one  calls  me  Caterina,  only  when  they  call 
me  Tina.", 

"  Come,  come,  more  singing,  more  singing,  little  monkey," 
Sir  Christopher  called  out  from  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
"  We  have  not  had  half  enough  yet." 

Caterina  was  ready  enough  to  obey,  for  while  she  was  sing- 
ing she  was  queen  ot  the  room,  and  Miss  Assher  was  reduced 
to  grimacing  admiration.  Alas  !  you  see  what  jealousy  was 
doing  in  this  poor  young  soul.  Caterina,  who  had  passed  her 
life  as  a  little  unobtrusive  singing-bird,  nestling  so  fondly  un- 
der the  wings  that  were  outstretched  for  her, her  heart  beating 
only  to  the  peaceful  rhythm  of  Jove,  or  fluttering  with  some 
easily  stifled  fear,  had  begun  to  know  the  fierce  palpitations 
of  triumph  and  hatred. 

When  the  singing  was  over,  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady 
Cheverel  sat  down  to  whist  with  Lady  Assher  and  Mr.  Gilfil, 
and  Caterina  placed  herself  at  the  Baronet's  elbow,  as  if  to 
watch  the  game,  that  she  might  not  appear  to  thrust  herself 
on  the  pair  of  lovers.  At  first  she  was  glowing  with  her  lit- 
tle triumph,  and  felt  the  strength  of  pride ;  but  her  eye  would 
steal  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace,  where  Captain  Wy- 
brow had  seated  himself  close  to  Miss  Assher,  and  was  lean- 
ing with  his  arm  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  in  the  most  lover- 
like  position.  Caterina  began  to  feel  a  choking  sensation. 
She  could  see,  almost  without  looking,  that  he  was  taking  up 
her  arm  to  examine  her  bracelet ;  their  heads  were  bending 
close  together,  her  curls  touching  his  cheek — now  he  was  put- 
ting his  lips  to  her  hand.  Caterina  felt  her  cheeks  burn — she 
could  sit  no  longer.  She  got  up,  pretended  to  be  gliding  about 
in  search  of  something,  and  at  length  slipped  out  of  the 
room. 


126  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Outside,  she  took  a  candle,  and,  hurrying  along  the  passages 
and  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room,  locked  the  door. 

"  Oh,  I  can  not  bear  it,  I  can  not  bear  it !"  the  poor  thing 
burst  out  aloud,  clasping  her  little  fingers,  and  pressing  them 
back  against  her  forehead,  as  if  she  wanted  to  break  them. 

Then  she  walked  hurriedly  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  And  this  must  go  on  for  days  and  days,  and  I  must  see 
it" 

She  looked  about  nervously  for  something  to  clutch.  There 
was  a  muslin  kerchief  lying  on  the  table ;  she  took  it  up  and 
tore  it  into  shreds  as  she  walked  up  and  down,  and  then  pressed 
it  into  hard  balls  in  her  hand. 

"  And  Anthony,"  she  thought,  "  he  can  do  this  without  car- 
ing for  what  I  feel.  Oh,  he  can  forget  every  thing :  how  he 
used  to  say  he  loved  me — how  he  used  to  take  my  hand  in 
his  as  we  walked — how  he  used  to  stand  near  me  in  the  even- 
ings for  the  sake  of  looking  into  my  eyes." 

"  Oh,  it  is  cruel,  it  is  cruel !"  she  burst  out  again  aloud,  as 
all  those  love-moments  in  the  past  returned  upon  her.  Then 
the  tears  gushed  forth,  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by  the 
bed,  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been  there,  till  she  was 
startled  by  the  prayer-bell ;  when,  thinking  Lady  Cheverel 
might  perhaps  send  some  one  to  inquire  after  her,  she  rose, 
and  began  hastily  to  undress,  that  there  might  be  no  possibili- 
ty of  her  going  down  again.  She  had  hardly  unfastened  her 
hair,  and  thrown  a  loose  gown  about  her,  before  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Sharp's  voice  said — "  Miss  Tina, 
my  lady  wants  to  know  if  you're  ill." 

Caterina  opened  the  door  and  said,  "  Thank  you,  dear  Mrs. 
Sharp  ;  I  have  a  bad  headache ;  please  tell  my  lady  I  felt  it 
come  on  after  singing." 

"  Then,  goodness  me !  why  arn't  you  in  bed,  instead  o' 
standing  shivering  there,  fit  to  catch  your  death  ?  Come,  let 
me  fasten  up  your  hair  and  tuck  you  up  warm." 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you ;  I  shall  really  be  in  bed  very  soon.  Good- 
night, dear  Sharpy ;  don't  scold ;  I  will  be  good,  and  get  into 
bed." 

Caterina  kissed  her  old  friend  coaxingly,  but  Mrs.  Sharp 
was  not  to  be  "  come  over  "  in  that  way,  and  insisted  on  see- 
ing her  former  charge  in  bed,  taking  away  the  candle  which 
the  poor  child  had  wanted  to  keep  as  a  companion. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  lie  there  long  with  that  beating 
heart ;  and  the  little  white  figure  was  soon  out  of  bed  again, 
seeking  relief  in  the  very  sense  of  chill  and  uncomfort.  It  was 
light  enough  for  her  to  see  about  her  room,  for  the  moon,  near- 


MR.  GILFEL'S  LOVE-STORY.  127 

ly  at  full,  was  riding  high  in  the  heavens  among  scattered 
hurrying  clouds.  Caterina  drew  aside  the  window-curtain; 
and,  sitting  with  her  forehead  pressed  against  the  cold  pane, 
looked  out  on  the  wide  stretch  of  park  and  lawn. 

How  dreary  the  moonlight  is !  robbed  of  all  its  tenderness 
and  repose  by  the  hard  driving  wind.  The  trees  are  harassed 
by  that  tossing  motion,  when  they  would  like  to  be  at  rest ; 
the  shivering  grass  makes  her  quake  with  sympathetic  cold ; 
and  the  willows  by  the  pool,  bent  low  and  white  under  that 
invisible  harshness,  seem  agitated  and  helpless  like  herself. 
But  she  loves  the  scene  the  better  for  its  sadness :  there  is 
some  pity  in  it.  It  is  not  like  that  hard  unfeeling  happiness 
of  lovers,  flaunting  in  the  eyes  of  misery. 

She  set  her  teeth  tight  against  the  window-frame,  and  the 
tears  fell  thick  and  fast.  She  was  so  thankful  she  could  cry, 
for  the  mad  passion  she  had  felt  when  her  eyes  were  dry  fright- 
ened her.  If  that  dreadful  feeling  were  to  come  on  when  Lady 
Cheverel  was  present,  she  should  never  be  able  to  contain  her- 
self. 

Then  there  was  Sir  Christopher — so  good  to  her — so  happy 
about  Anthony's  marriage ;  and  all  the  while  she  had  these 
wicked  feelings.  -  *  . 

"Oh,  I  can  not  help  it,  I  can  not  help  it!"  she  said  in 
a  loud  whisper  between  her  sobs.  "  O  God,  have  pity  upon 
me !"• 

In  this  way  Tina  wore  out  the  long  hours  of  the  windy 
moonlight,  till  at  last,  with  weary  aching  limbs,  she  lay  down 
in  bed  again,  and  slept  from  mere  exhaustion. 

While  this  poor  little  heart  was  being  bruised  with  a  weight 
too  heavy  for  it,  Nature  was  holding  on  her  calm  inexorable 
way,  in  unmoved  and  terrible  beauty.  The  stars  were  rush- 
ing in  their  eternal  courses ;  the  tides  swelled  to  the  level  of 
the  last  expectant  weed ;  the  sun  was  making  brilliant  day 
to  busy  nations  on  the  other  side  of  the  swift  earth.  The 
stream  of  human  thought  and  deed  was  hurrying  and  broad- 
ening onward.  The  astronomer  was  at  his  telescope ;  the 
great  ships  were  laboring  over  the  waves ;  the  toiling  eager- 
ness of  commerce,  the  fierce  spirit  of  revolution,  were  only 
ebbing  in  brief  rest ;  and  sleepless  statesmen  were  dreading 
the  possible  crisis  of  the  morrow.  What  were  our  little  Tina 
and  her  trouble  in  this  mighty  torrent,  rushing  from  one 
awful  unknown  to  another?  Lighter  than  the  smallest  cen- 
tre of  quivering  life  in  the  water-drop,  hidden  and  uncared 
for  as  the  pulse  of  anguish  in  the  breast  of  the  tiniest  bird 
that  has  fluttered  down  to  its  nest  with  the  long-sought  food, 
i»nd  has  found  the  nest  torn  and  empty. 


128  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  next  morning  when  Caterina  was  waked  from  her 
heavy  sleep  by  Martha  bringing  in  the  warm  water,  the  sun 
was  shining,  the  wind  had  abated,  and  those  hours  of  suffer- 
ing in  the  night  seemed  unreal  and  dreamlike,  in  spite  of 
weary  limbs  and  aching  eyes.  She  got  up  and  began  to 
dress  with  a  strange  feeling  of  insensibility,  as  if  nothing 
could  make  her  cry  again ;  and  she  even  felt  a  sort  of  long- 
ing to  be  down  stairs  in  the  midst  of  company,  that  she  might 
get  rid  of  this  benumbed  condition  by  contact. 

There  are  few  of  us  that  are  not  rather  ashamed  of  our 
sins  and  follies  as  we  look  out  on  the  blessed  morning  sun- 
light, which  comes  to  us  like  a  bright-winged  angel  beckon- 
ing us  to  quit  the  old  path  of  vanity  that  stretches  its  dreary 
length  behind  us ;  and  Tina,  little  as  she  knew  about  doc- 
trines and  theories,  seemed  to  herself  to  have  been  both  fool- 
ish and  wicked  yesterday.  To-day  she  would  try  to  be  good ; 
and  when  she  knelt  down  to  say  her  short  prayer — the  very 
form  she  had  learned  by  heart  when  she  was  ten  years  old 
— she  added,  "  O  God,  help  me  to  bear  it !" 

That  day  the  prayer  seemed  to  be  answered,  for  after 
some  remarks  on  her  pale  looks  at  breakfast,  Caterina  passed 
the  morning  quietly,  Miss  Assher  and  Captain  Wybrow  be- 
ing out  on  a  riding  excursion.  In  the  evening  there  was  a 
dinner-party,  and  after  Caterina  had  sung  a  little,  Lady 
Cheverel  remembering  that  she  was  ailing,  sent  her  to  bed, 
where  she  soon  sank  into  a  deep  sleep.  Body  and  mind 
must  renew  their  force  to  suffer  as  well  as  to  enjoy. 

On  the  morrow,  however,  it  was  rainy,  and  every  one  must 
stay  in-doors ;  so  it  was  resolved  that  the  guests  should  be 
taken  over  the  house  by  Sir  Christopher,  to  hear  the  story 
of  the  architectural  alterations,  the  family  portraits,  and  the 
family  relics.  All  the  party,  except  Mr.  Gilfil,  were  in  the 
drawing-room  when  the  proposition  was  made ;  and  when 
Miss  Assher  rose  to  go,  she  looked  towards  Captain  Wybrow, 
expecting  to  see  him  rise  too ;  but  he  kept  his  seat  near  the 
fire,  turning  his  eyes  towards  the  newspaper  which  he  had 
been  holding  unread  in  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  not  coming,  Anthony  ?"  said  Lady  Cheverel, 
noticing  Miss  Assher' s  look  of  expectation. 

"I  think  not,  if  you'll  excuse  me,"  he  answered,  rising  and 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  129 

opening  the  door ;  "  I  feel  a  little  chilled  this  morning,  and,  I 
am  afraid  of  the  cold  rooms  and  draughts." 

Miss  Assher  reddened,  but  said  nothing,  and  passed  on, 
Lady  Cheverel  accompanying  her. 

Caterina  was  seated  at  work  in  the  oriel  window.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  and  Anthony  had  been  alone  together,  and 
she  had  thought  before  that  he  wished  to  avoid  her.  But 
now,  surely,  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her — he  wanted  to  say 
something  kind.  Presently  he  rose  from  his  seat  near  the 
fire,  and  placed  himself  on  the  ottoman  opposite  to  her. 

"  Well,  Tina,  and  how  have  you  been  all  this  long  time  ?" 

Both  the  tone  and  the  words  were  an  offense  to  her;  the 
tone  was  so  different  from  the  old  one,  the  words  were  so 
cold  and  unmeaning.  She  answered  with  a  little  bitterness, 

"  I  think  you  needn't  ask.  It  doesn't  make  much  differ- 
ence to  you." 

"  Is  that  the  kindest  thing  you  have  to  say  to  me  after 
my  long  absence  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  expect  me  to  say  kind 
things." 

Captain  Wybrow  was  silent.  He  wished  very  much  to 
avoid  allusions  to  the  past  or  comments  on  the  present.  And 
yet  he  wished  to  be  well  with  Caterina.  He  would  have 
liked,  to  caress.  hcr,-mjike_her  presents,  and  have  her  think 


him  very  kind  to  her.  But  th^e^wpmeh  are  plaguy^pcr- 
verse  !  There's  no  bringing  them  to  look  rationally  at  any 
thiiiLT.  At  last  he  said,  "1  hoped  you  would  think  all  the 
be'fEer  of  me,  Tina,  for  doing  as  I  have  done,  instead  of  bear- 
ing malice  towards  me.  I  hoped  you  would  see  that  it  is  the 
best  thing  for  every  one — the  best  for  your  happiness  too." 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  make  love  to  Miss  Assher  for  the  sake  of 
my  happiness,"  answered  Tina. 

At  this  moment  the  dOor  opened,  and  Miss  Assher  entered, 
to  fetch  her  reticule,  which  lay  on  the  harpsichord.  She  gave 
a  keen  glance  at  Caterina,  whose  face  was  flushed,  and  say- 
ing to  Captain  Wybrow  with  a  slight  sneer, "  Since  you  are 
so  chill  I  wonder  you  like  to  sit  in  the  window,"  left  the  room 
again  immediately. 

The  lover  did  not  appear  much  discomposed,  but  sat  quiet 
a  little  longer,  and  then,  seating  himself  on  the  music-stool, 
drew  it  near  to  Caterina,  and,  taking  her  hand,  said, "  Come, 
Tina,  look  kindly  at  me,  and  let  us  be  friends.  I  shall  al- 
ways be  your  friend." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Caterina,  drawing  away  her  hand. 
"  You  are  very  generous.  But  pray  move  away.  Miss 
Assher  may  come  >n  again." 

6* 


130  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

"  Miss  Assher  be  hanged  !"  said  Anthony,  feeling  the  fas- 
cination of  old  habit  returning  on  him  in  his  proximity  to 
Caterina.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  leaned  his 
cheek  down  to  hers.  The  lips  couldn't  help  meeting  after 
that ;  but  the  next  moment,  with  heart  swelling  and  tears 
rising,  Caterina  burst  away  from  him,  and  rushed  out  of  the 
rooP\- 


CHAPTER  VH 

CATERINA  tore  herself  from  Anthony  with  the  desperate 
effort  of  one  who  has  just  self-recollection  enough  left  to  be 
conscious  that  the  fumes  of  charcoal  will  master  his  senses 
unless  he  bursts  a  way  for  himself  to  the  fresh  air;  but  when 
she  reached  her  own  room,  she  was  still  too  intoxicated  with 
that  momentary  revival  of  old  emotions,  too  much  agitated 
by  the  sudden  return  of  tenderness  in  her  lover,  to  know 
whether  pain  or  pleasure  predominated.  It  was  as  if  a  mira- 
cle had  happened  in  her  little  world  of  feeling,  and  made  the 
future  all  vague — a  dim  morning  haze  of  possibilities,  instead 
of  the  sombre  wintry  daylight  and  clear  rigid  outline  of  pain- 
ful certainty. 

She  felt  the  need  of  rapid  movement.  She  must  walk  out 
in  spite  of  the  rain.  Happily,  there  was  a  thin  place  in  the 
curtain  of  clouds  which  seemed  to  promise  that  now,  about 
noon,  the  day  had  a  mind  to  clear  up.  Caterina  thought  to 
herself,  "  I  will  walk  to  the  Mosslands,  and  carry  Mr.  Bates 
the  comforter  I  have  made  for  him,  and  then  Lady  Cheverel 
will  not  wonder  so  much  at  my  going  out."  At  the  hall 
door  she  found  Rupert,  the  old  bloodhound,  stationed  on  the 
mat,  with  the  determination  that  the  first  person  who  was 
sensible  enough  to  take  a  walk  that  morning  should  have 
the  honor  of  his  approbation  and  society.  As  he  thrust  his 
great  black  and  tawny  head  under  her  hand,  and  wagged 
his  tail  with  vigorous  eloquence,  and  reached  the  climax  of 
his  welcome  by  jumping  up  to  lick  her  face,  which  was  at  a 
convenient  licking  height  for  him,  Caterina  felt  quite  grateful 
to  the  old  dog  for  his  friendliness.  Animals  are  such  agree- 
able friends — they  ask  no  questions,  they  pass  no  criticisms. 

The  "  Mosslands "  was  a  remote  part  of  the  grounds,  en- 
circled by  the  little  stream  issuing  from  the  pool ;  and  cer- 
tainly, for  a  wet  day,  Caterina  could  hardly  have  chosen  a 
less  suitable  walk,  for  though  the  rain  was  abating,  and  pres- 
ently ceased  altogether,  thwe  was  still  a  smart  shower  falling 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  131 

from  the  trees  which  arched  over  the  greater  part  of  the  way. 
But  she  found  just  the  desired  relief  from  her  feverish  excite- 
ment in  laboring  along  the  wet  paths  with  an  umbrella  that 
made  her  arm  ache.  This  amount  of  exertion  was  to  her 
tiny  body  what  a  day's  hunting  often  was  to  Mr.  Gilfil,  who 
at  times  had  his  fits  of  jealousy  and  sadness  to  get  rid  of, 
and  wisely  had  recourse  to  nature's  innocent  opium — fatigue. 

When  Caterina  reached  the  pretty  arched  wooden  bridge 
which  formed  the  only  entrance  to  the  Mosslands  for  any  but 
webbed  feet,  the  sun  had  mastered  the  clouds,  and  was  shin- 
ing through  the  boughs  of  the  tall  elms  that  made  a  deep 
nest  for  the  gardener's  cottage — turning  the  rain-drops  into 
diamonds,  and  inviting  the  nasturtium  flowers  creeping  over 
the  porch  and  low-thatched  roof  to  lift  up  their  flame-colored 
heads  once  more.  The  rooks  were  cawing  with  many-voiced 
monotony,  apparently — by  a  remarkable  approximation  to 
human  intelligence — finding  great  conversational  resources 
in  the  chapge  of  weather.  The  mossy  turf,  studded  with 
the  broad  blades  of  marsh-loving  plants,  told  that  Mr.  Bates's 
nest  was  rather  damp  in  the  best  of  weather ;  but  he  was  of 
opinion  that  a  little  external  moisture  would  hurt  no  man 
who  was  not  perversely  neglectful  of  that  obvious  and  provi- 
dential antidote,  rum-and-water. 

Caterina  loved  this  nest.  Every  object  in  it,  every  sound 
that  haunted  it,  had  been  familiar  to  her  from  the  days  when 
she  had  been  carried  thither  on  Mr.  Bates's  arm,  making  little 
cawing  noises  to  imitate  the  rooks,  clapping  her  hands  at  the 
green  frogs  leaping  in  the  moist  grass,  and  fixing  grave  eyes 
on  the  gardener's  fowls  cluck-clucking  under  their  pens. 
And  now  the  spot  looked  prettier  to  her  than  ever;  it  was 
so  out  of  the  way  of  Miss  Assher,  with  her  brilliant  beauty, 
and  personal  claims,  and  small  civil  remarks.  She  thought 
Mr.  Bates  would  not  be  come  into  his  dinner  yet,  so  she  would 
sit  down  and  wait  for  him. 

But  she  was  mistaken.  Mr.  Bates  was  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair, with  his  pocket-handkerchief  thrown  over  his  face,  as 
the  most  eligible  mode  of  passing  away  those  superfluous 
hours  between  meals  when  the  weather  drives  a  man  in-doors. 
Roused  by  the  furious  barking  of  his  chained  bulldog,  he  de- 
scried his  little  favorite  approaching  and  forthwith  presented 
himself  at  the  doorway,  looking  disproportionately  tall  com- 
pared with  the  height  of  his  cottage.  The  bulldog,  mean- 
while, unbent  from  the  severity  of  his  official  demeanor,  and 
commenced  a  friendly  interchange  of  ideas  with  Rupert. 

Mr.  Bates's  hair  was  now  gray,  but  his  frame  was  none  the 
less  stalwart,  and  his  face  looked  all  the  redder,  making  an 


132  SCENES   OP   CLEEICAL  LIFE. 

artistic  contrast  with  the  deep  blue  of  his  cotton  neckerchief, 
and  of  his  linen  apron  twisted  into  a  girdle  round  his  waist. 

"Why,  dang  my  boottons,  Miss  Tiny,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  hoo  coom  ye  to  coom  out  dabblin'  your  faet  laike  a  little 
Muscovy  duck,  sich  a  day  as  this  ?  Not  but  what  ai'm  de- 
laighted  to  sae  ye.  Here,  Hesther,"  he  called  to  his  old  hump- 
backed housekeeper,  "tek  the  young  ledy's  oombrella  an' 
spread  it  out  to  dray.  Coom,  coom  in,  Miss  Tiny,  an'  set  ye 
doon  by  the  faire  an'  dray  yer  faet  an'  hev  summat  warm  to 
kape  ye  from  ketchin'  coold." 

Mr.  Bates  led  the  way,  stooping  under  the  doorplaces,  into 
his  small  sitting-room,  and,  shaking  the  patchwork  cushion  in 
his  arm-chair,  moved  it  to  within  a  good  roasting  distance  of 
the  blazing  fire. 

"  Thank  you,  uncle  Bates  "  (Caterina  kept  up  her  childish 
epithets  for  her  friends,  and  this  was  one  of  them) ;  "  not  quite 
so  close  to  the  fire,  for  I  am  warm  with  walking." 

"  Eh,  but  yer  shoes  are  faine  an'  wet,  an'  ye  must  put  up 
yer  faet  on  the  fender.  Rare  big  faet,  baint  'em  ? — aboot  the 
saize  of  a  good  big  spoon.  I  woonder  ye  can  mek  a  shift  to 
stan'  on  'em.  Now,  what'll  ye  hev  to  warm  yer  insaide? — a 
drop  o'  hot  elder  wain,  now  ?" 

"  No,  not  any  thing  to  drink,  thank  you  ;  it  isn't  very  long 
since  breakfast,"  said  Caterina,  drawing  out  the  comforter 
from  her  deep  pocket.  Pockets  were  capacious  in  those  days. 
"  Look  here,  uncle  Bates,  here  is  what  I  came  to  bring  you. 
I  made  it  on  purpose  for  you.  You  must  wear  it  this  winter, 
and  give  your  red  one  to  old  Brooks." 

"  Eh,  Miss  Tiny,  this  is  a  beauty.  An'  ye  made  it  all  AVI' 
yer  little  fingers  for  an  old  feller  laike  mae  !  I  tek  it  very 
kaind  on  ye,  an'  I  belave  ye  I'll  wear  it,  and  be  prood  on't 
too.  These  sthraipes,  blue  an'  whaite,  now,  they  mek  it  un- 
common pritty." 

"  Yes,  that  will  suit  your  complexion,  you  know,  better 
than  the  old  scarlet  one.  I  know  Mrs.  Sharp  will  be  more  in 
love  with  you  than  ever  when  she  sees  you  in  the  new  one." 

"  My  complexion,  ye  little  roogue  !  ye're  a  laughin'  at  me. 
But  talkin'  o'  complexions,  what  a  beautiful  color  the  bride 
as  is  to  be  has  on  her  cheeks !  Dang  my  boottons  !  she  looks 
faine  and  handsome  o'  hossback — sits  as  upraight  as  a  dart, 
wi'  a  figure  like  a  statty !  Misthi'ess  Sharp  has  promised  to 
put  me  behaind  one  o'  the  doors  when  the  ladies  are  coinin' 
doon  to  dinner,  so  as  I  may  sae  the  young  un  i'  full  dress,  wi' 
all  her  curls  an'  that.  Misthress  Sharp  says  she's  almost  bcau- 
tifuller  nor  my  ledy  was  when  she  was  yoong ;  an'  I  think 
ye'll  noot  faind  many  i'  the  counthry  as'll  coom  up  to  that." 


MB.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  133 

"  Yes,  Miss  Assher  is  very  handsome,"  said  Caterina,  rath- 
er faintly,  feeling  the  sense  of  her  own  insignificance  return- 
ing at  this  picture  of  the  impression  Miss  Assher  made  on 
others. 

"  Well,  an'  I  hope  she's  good  too,  an'll  mek  a  good  naice 
to  Sir  Cristhifer  an'  my  ledy.  Misthress  Griffin,  the  maid, 
says  as  she's  rether  tatchy  and  find-fautin'  aboot  her  cloothes, 
laike.  But  she's  yoong — she's  yoong  ;  that'll  wear  off  when 
she's  got  a  hoosband,  an'  childi'en,  an'  summat  else  to  think 
on.  Sir  Cristhifer's  fain  an'  delaighted,  I  can  see.  He  says  to 
me  th'other  mornin,'  says  he,  'Well  Bates,  what  do  you 
think  of  your  young  misthress  as  is  to  be  ?'  An'  I  says, 
'  Whay,  yer  honor,  I  think  she's  as  fain  a  lass  as  iver  I  set 
eyes  on ;  an'  I  wish  the  Captain  luck  in  a  fain  family,  an' 
your  honor  laife  an'  health  to  see't.'  Mr.  Warren  says  as  the 
masther's  all  for  forrardin'  the  weddin',  an'  it'll  very  laike  be 
afore  the  autumn's  oot." 

As  Mr.  Bates  ran  on,  Caterina  felt  something  like  a  pain- 
ful contraction  at  her  heart.  "  Yes,"  she  said  rising,  "  I  dare 
say  it  will.  Sir  Christopher  is  very  anxious  for  it.  But  I 
must  go,  uncle  Bates ;  Lady  Cheverel  will  be  wanting  me, 
and  it  is  your  dinner-time." 

"  Nay,  my  dinner  doon't  sinnify  a  bit ;  but  I  moosn't  kaep 
ye  if  my  ledy  wants  ye.  Though  I  hevn't  thanked  ye  half 
anoof-  for  the  comfiter — the  wrapraskil,  as  they  call't.  My 
feckins,  it's  a  beauty.  But  ye  look  very  whaite  and  sadly, 
Miss  Tiny  ;  I  doubt  ye're  poorly ;  an'  this  walking  i'  th'  wet 
isn't  good  for  ye." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  indeed,"  said  Caterina,  hastening  out,  and 
taking  up  her  umbrella  from  the  kitchen  floor.  "  I  must  real- 
ly go  now ;  so,  good-bye." 

She  tripped  off,  calling  Rupert,  while  the  good  gardener, 
his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets,  stood  looking  after  her, 
and  shaking  his  head  with  rather  a  melancholy  air. 

"  She  gets  moor  nesh  and  dillicat  than  iver,"  he  said,  half 
to  himself  and  half  to  Hester.  "  I  shouldn't  woonder  if  she 
fades  away  laike  them  cyclamens  as  I  transplanted.  She  puts 
me  i'  maind  on  'em  somehow,  hangin'  on  their  little  thin  stalks, 
so  whaite  an'  tinder." 

The  poor  little  thing  made  her  way  back,  no  longer  hunger- 
ing for  the  cold  moist  air  as  a  counteractive  of  inward  excite- 
ment, but  with  a  chill  at  her  heart  which  made  the  outward 
chill  only  depressing.  The  golden  sunlight  beamed  through 
the  dripping  boughs  like  a  Shechinah,  or  visible  divine  pres- 
ence, and  the  birds  were  chirping  and  trilling  their  new  au- 
tumnal songs  so  sweetly,  it  seemed  as  if  their  throats,  as  well 


134  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

as  the  air,  were  all  the  clearer  for  the  rain  ;  but  Caterina  moved 
through  all  this  joy  and  beauty  like  a  poor  wounded  lev- 
eret painfully  dragging  its  little  body  through  the  sweet 
clover-tufts — for  it,  sweet  in  vain.  Mr.  Bates's  words  about 
Sir  Christopher's  joy,  Miss  Assher's  beauty,  and  the  nearness 
of  the  wedding,  had  come  upon  her  like  the  pressure  of  a 
cold  hand,  rousing  her  from  confused  dozing  to  a  perception  of 
hard,  familiar  realities.  It  is  so  with  emotional  natures,  whose 
thoughts  are  no  more  than  the  fleeting  shadows  cast  by  feel- 
ing :  to  them  words  are  facts,  and  even  when  known  to  be 
false,  have  a  mastery  over  their  smiles  and  tears.  Caterina 
entered  her  own  room  again,  with  no  other  change  from  her 
former  state  of  despondency  and  wretchedness  than  an  ad- 
ditional sense  of  injury  from  Anthony.  His  behavior  towards 
her  in  the  morning  was  a  new  wrong.  To  snatch  a  caress 
when  she  justly  claimed  an  expression  of  penitence,  of  regret, 
of  sympathy,  was  to  make  more  light  of  her  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  VHI 

THAT  evening  Miss  Assher  seemed  to  carry  herself  with  un- 
usual haughtiness,  and  was  coldly  observant  of  Caterina. 
There  was  unmistakably  thunder  in  the  air.  Captain  Wy- 
brow  appeared  to  take  the  matter  very  easily,  and  was  inclined 
to  brave  it  out  by  paying  more  than  ordinary  attention  to 
Caterina.  Mr.  Gilfil  had  induced  her  to  play  a  game  at 
draughts  with  him,  Lady  Assher  being  seated  at  picquet  with 
Sir  Christopher,  and  Miss  Assher  in  determined  conversation 
with  Lady  Cheverel.  Anthony,  thus  left  as  an  odd  unit, 
sauntered  up  to  Caterina's  chair,  and  leaned  behind  her,  watch- 
ing the  game.  Tina,  with  all  the  remembrances  of  the  morn- 
ing thick  upon  her,  felt  her  cheeks  becoming  more  and  more 
crimson,  and  at  last  said  impatiently, "  I  wish  you  would  go 
away." 

This  happened  directly  under  the  view  of  Miss  Assher,  who 
saw  Caterina's  reddening  cheeks,  saw  that  she  said  something 
impatiently,  and  that  Captain  Wybrow  moved  away  in  con- 
sequence. There  was  another  person,  too,  who  had  noticed 
this  incident  with  strong  interest,  and  who  was  moreover 
aware  that  Miss  Assher  not  only  saw,  but  keenly  observed 
what  was  passing.  That  other  person  was  Mr.  Gilfil,  and  he 
drew  some  painful  conclusions  which  heightened  his  anxiety 
for  Caterina. 


MR.  GILFII/S    LOVE-STORY.  135 

The  next  morning,  in  spite  of  the  fine  weather,  Miss  Assher 
declined  riding,  and  Lady  Cheverel,  perceiving  that  there  was 
something  wrong  between  the  lovers,  took  care  that  they 
should  be  left  together  in  the  drawing-room,  i  Miss  Assher, 
seated  on  a  sofa  near  the  fire,  was  busy  with  some  fancy-work, 
in  which  she  seemed  bent  on  making  great  progress  this 
morning.  Captain  Wybrow  sat  opposite  with  a  newspaper 
in  his  hand,  from  which  he  obligingly  read  extracts  with  an 
elaborately  easy  air,  willfully  unconscious  of  the  contemptu- 
ous silence  with  which  she  pursued  her  filigree  work.  At 
length  he  put  down  the  paper,  which  he  could  no  longer  pre- 
tend not  to  have  exhausted,  and  Miss  Assher  then  said, 

"  You  seem  to  be  on  very  intimate  terms  with  Miss  Sarti." 

"  With  Tina  ?  oh  yes  ;  she  has  always  been  the  pet  of  the 
house,  you  know.  We  have  been  quite  brother  and  sister 
together." 

"  Sisters,  don't  generally  color  so  very  deeply  when  their 
brothers  approach  them." 

"Does  she  color?  I  never  noticed  it.  But  she's  a  timid 
little  thing." 

"  It  would  be  much  better  if  you  would  not  be  so  hypo- 
critical, Captain  Wybrow.  I  am  confident  there  has  been 
some  flirtation  between  you.  iBfisTSBOpiir-hcr  position, 
would  never  speak  to  yon  with  the  petulance  she  did  last 
night,  if  you  had  not  given  her  some  kind  of  claim  on  you." 

"  My  dear  Beatrice,  now  do  be  reasonable  ;  do  ask  your- 
self what  earthly  probability  there  is  that  I  should  think  of 
flirting  with  poor  little  Tina.  Is  there  any  thing  about  her 
to  attract  that  sort  of  attention?  She  is  more  child  than 
woman.  One  thinks  of  her  as  a  little  girl  to  be  petted  and 
played  with." 

"Pray,  what  were  you  playing  at  with  her  yesterday 
morning,  when  I  came  in  unexpectedly,  and  her  cheeks  were 
flushed  and  her  hands  trembling  ?" 

"  Yesterday  morning  ? — Oh,  I  remember.  You  know  I  al- 
ways tease  her  about  Gilfil,  who  is  over  h^ad  and  ears  in  love 
with  her ;  and  she  is  angry  at  that, — perhaps,  because  she 
likes  him.  They  were  old  play-fellows  years  before  I  came 
here,  and  Sir  Christopher  has  set  his  heart  on  their  marry- 
ing." 

"  Captain  Wybrow,  you  are  very  false.  It  had  nothing  to 
do  with  Mr.  Gilfil  that  she  colored  last  night  when  you  lean- 
ed over  her  chair.  You  might  just  as  well  be  candid.  If  your 
own  mind  is  not  made  up,  pray  do  no  violence  to  yourself.  I 
am  quite  ready  to  give  way  to  Miss  Sarti's  superior  attrac- 
tions. Understand  that,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  are 


136  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

perfectly  at  liberty.  I  decline  any  share  in  the  affection  of  a 
man  who  forfeits  my  respect  by  duplicity." 

In  saying  this  Miss  Assher  rose,  and  was  sweeping  haughti- 
ly out  of  the  room,  when  Captain  Wybrow  placed  himself  be 
fore  her,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Dear,  dear  Beatrice,  be  patient ;  do  not  judge  me  so  rash- 
ly. Sit  down  again,  sweet,"  he  added  in  a  pleading  voice, 
pressing  both  her  hands  between  his,  and  leading  her  back  to 
the  sofa,  where  he  sat  down  beside  her.  Miss  Assher  was  not 
unwilling  to  be  led  back  or  to  listen,  but  she  retained  her  cold 
and  haughty  expression. 

"  Can  you  not  trust  me,  Beatrice  ?  Can  you  not  believe 
me,  although  there  may  be  things  I  am  unable  to  explain  ?" 

"  Why  should  there  be  any  thing  you  are  unable  to  ex- 
plain? An  honorable  man  will  not  be  placed  in  circum- 
stances which  he  can  not  explain  to  the  woman  he  seeks  to 
make  his  wife.  He  will  not  ask  her  to  believe  that  he  acts 
properly  ;  he'will  let  her  know  that  he  does  so.  Let  me  go, 
sir." 

She  attempted  to  rise,  but  he  passed  his  hand  round  her 
waist  and  detained  her. 

"  Now,  Beatrice,  dear,"  he  said  imploringly,  "  can  you  not 
understand  that  there  are  things  a  man  doesn't  like  to  talk 
about — secrets  that  he  must  keep  for  the  sake  of  others,  and 
not  for  his  own  sake  ?  Every  thing  that  relates  to  myself 
you  may  ask  me,  but  do  not  ask  me  to  tell  other  people's  se- 
crets. Don't  you  understand  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Assher  scornfully,  "  I  understand. 
Whenever  you  make  love  to  a  woman — that  is  her  secret, 
which  you  are  bound  to  keep  for  her.  But  it  is  folly  to  be 
talking  in  this  way,  Captain  Wybrow.  It  is  very  plain  that 
there  is  some  relation  more  than  friendship  between  you  and 
Miss  SartL  Since  you  can  not  explain  that  relation,  there  is 
no  more  to  be  said  between  us." 

"  Confound  it,  Beatrice !  you'll  drive  me  mad.  Can  a  fel- 
low help  a  girl's  falling  in  love  with  him?  Such  things  are 
always  happening,  but  men  don't  talk  of  them.  These  fan- 
cies will  spring- up  without  the  slightest  foundation,  .especial- 
ly when  a  woman  sees  few  people  ;  they  die  out  again  when 
there  is  no  encouragement.  If  you  could  like  me,  you  ought 
not  to  be  surprised  that  other  people  caiT;~yoTro-nght  to  think 
the  better  of  them  for  it." 

"  You  mean  to  say,  then,  that  Miss  Sarti  is  in  love  with 
you,  without  your  ever  having  made  love  to  her." 

"  Do  not  press  me  to  say  such  things,  dearest.  It  is  enough 
that  you  know  I  love  you — that  I  am  devoted  to  you.  You 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  137 

naughty  queen  you,  you  know  there  is  no  chance  for  any  one 
else  where  you  are.     V^njlTfi  only 


But  don't  bejjoo  cruel  ;  for  you  know 
they  say  I  have  another  heart-disease  Besides  love,  and  these 
scenes  bring  on  terrible  palpitations." 

"  But  I  must  have  an  answer  to  this  one  question,"  said 
Miss  Assher,  a  little  softened  :  "  Has  there  been,  or  is  there, 
any  love  on  your  side  towards  Miss  Sarti  ?  I  have  nothing 
to  d.o  with  her  feelings,  but  I  have  a  right  to  know  yours." 

"  I  like  Tina  very  much  ;  who  would  not  like  such  a  little 
simple  thing?  You  would  not  wish  me  not  to  like  her? 
But  love  —  that  is  a  very  different  affair.  One  has  a  brother- 
ly affection  for  such  a  woman  as  Tina  ;  but  it  is  another  sort 
of  woman  that  one  loves." 

These  last  words  were  made  doubly  significant  by  a  look 
of  tenderness,  and  a  kiss  imprinted  on  the  hand  Captain  Wy- 
brow  held  in  his.  Miss  Assher  was  conquered.  It  was  so 
far  from  probable  that  Anthony  should  love  that  pale  insig- 
nificant little  thing  —  so  highly  probable  that  he  should  adore 
the  beautiful  Miss  Assher.  On  the  whole,  it  was  rather  grati- 
fying that  other  women  should  be  languishing  for  her  hand- 
some lover  ;  he  really  was  an  exquisite  creature.  Poor  Miss 
Sarti  !  Well,  she  would  get  over  it. 

Captain  Wyh''mv  SfLW  his  aflyaptaffe,  "  Come,  sweet  love," 
he  continued,  "  let  us  talk  no  more  about  unpleasant  things. 
You  will  keep  Tina's  secret,  and  be  very  kind  to  her  —  won't 
you  ?  —  for  my  sake.  But  you  will  ride  out  now  ?  See  what 
a  glorious  day  it  is  for  riding.  Let  me  order  the  horses. 
I'm  terribly  in  want  of  the  air.  Come,  give  me  one  forgiving 
kiss,  and  say  you  will  go." 

Miss  Assher  complied  with  the  double  request,  and,  then 
went  to  equip  herself  for  the  ride,  while  her  lover  walked  to 
the  stables. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MEANWHILE  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  had  a  heavy  weight  on  his 
mind,  had  watched  for  the  moment  when,  the  two  elder  ladies 
having  driven  out,  Caterina  would  probably  be  alone  in  Lady 
Cheverel's  sitting-room.  He  went  up  and  knocked  at  the 
door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  sweet  mellow  voice,  always  thrilling  to 
him  as  the  sound  of  rippling  water  to  the  thirsty. 

He  entered  and  found  Caterina  standing:  in  some  confu- 


138  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

sion,  as  if  she  had  been  startled  from  a  reverie.  She  felt  re- 
lieved when  she  saw  it  was  Maynard,  but,  the  next  moment, 
felt  a  little  pettish  that  he  should  have  come  to  interrupt  and 
frighten  her. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you,  Maynard  !     Do  you  want  Lady  Cheverel  ?" 

"  No,  Caterina,"  he  answered  gravely ;  "  I  want  you.  I 
have  something  very  particular  to  say  to  you.  Will  you  let 
me  sit  down  with  you  for  half  an  hour  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  old  preacher,"  said  Caterina,  sitting  down  with 
an  air  of  weariness  ;  "  what  is  it  ?" 

Mr.  Gilfil  placed  himself  opposite  to  her,  and  said,  "  I  hope 
you  will  not  be  hurt,  Caterina,  by  what  I  am  going  to  say  to 
you.  I  do  not  speak  from  any  other  feelings  than  real  affec- 
tion and  anxiety  for  you.  I  put  every  thing  else  out  of  the 
question.  You  know  you  are  more  to  me  than  all  the  world ; 
but  I  will  not  thrust  before  you  a  feeling  which  you  are  un- 
able to  return.  I  speak  to  you  as  a  brother — the  old  May- 
nard that  used  to  scold  you  for  getting  your  fishing-line  tan- 
gled ten  years  ago.  You  will  not  believe  that  I  have  any 
mean,  selfish  motive  in  mentioning  things  that  are  painful  to 
you  ?" 

"No  ;  I  know  you  are  very  good,"  said  Caterina, abstract- 
edly. 

"  From  what  I  saw  yesterday  evening,"  Mr.  Gilfil  went  on, 
hesitating  and  coloring  slightly, "  I  am  led  to  fear — pray  for- 
give me  if  I  am  wrong,  Caterina — that  you — that  Captain 
Wybrow  is  base  enough  still  to  trifle  with  your  feelings,  that 
he  still  allows  himself  to  behave  to  you  as  no  man  ought  who 
is  the  declared  lover  of  another  woman." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Maynard  ?"  said  Caterina,  with  an- 
ger flashing  from  her  eyes.  "Do  you  mean  that  I  let  him 
make  love  to  me?  What  right  have  you  to  think  that  of 
me  ?  What  do  you  mean  that  you  saw  yesterday  evening  ?" 

"  Do  not  be  angry,  Caterina.  I  don't  suspect  you  of  doing 
wrong.  I  only  suspect  that  heartless  puppy  of  behaving  so 
as  to  keep  awake  feelings  in  you  that  not  only  destroy  your 
own  peace  of  mind,  but  may  lead  to  very  bad  consequences 
with  regard  to  others.  I  want  to  warn  you  that  Miss  Assher 
has  her  eyes  open  on  what  passes  between  you  and  Captain 
Wybrow,  and  I  feel  sure  she  is  getting  jealous  of  you.  Pray 
be  very  careful,  Caterina,  and  try  to  behave  with  politeness 
and  indifference  to  him.  You  must  see  by  this  time  that  he 
is  not  worth  the  feelings  you  have  given  him.  He's  more 
disturbed  at  his  pulse  beating  one  too  many  in  a  minute,  than 
at  all  the  misery  he  has  caused  you  by  his  foolish  trifling." 

"  You  ought  not  to  speak  so  of  him,  Maynard,"  said  Caterina, 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.      v><  139 

passionately.  "  lie  is  not  what  you  think.  He  did  care  for 
me ;  he  did  love  me  \  onljg  he  wanted  to  do  what  his  uncle 
wished?** 

"  Oh^to  be  sure  !  I  know  it  is  only  from  the  most  virtu- 
ous motives  that  he  does  what  is  convenient  to  himself." 

Mr.  Gilfil  paused.  He  felt  that  he  was  getting  irritated, 
and  defeating  his  own  object.  Presently  he  continued  in  a 
calm  and  affectionate  tone  : 

"  I  will  say  no  more  about  what  I  think  of  him,  Caterina. 
But  whether  he  loved  you  or  not,  his  position  now  with  Miss 
Assher  is  such  that  any  love  you  may  cherish  for  him  can 
bring  nothing  but  misery.  God  knows,  I  don't  expect  you 
to  leave  off  loving  him  at  a  moment's  notice.  Time- and  ab- 
sence, and  trying  to  do  what  is  right,  are  the  only  cures.  If 
it  were  not  that  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel  would 
be  displeased  and  puzzled  at  your  wishing  to  leave  home  just 
now,  I  would  beg  you  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  sister.  She  and 
her  husband  are  good  creatures,  and  would  make  their  house 
a  home  to  you.  But  I  could  not  urge  the  thing  just  now 
without  giving  a  special  reason ;  and  what  is  most  of  all  to 
be  dreaded  is  the  raising  of  any  suspicion  in  Sir  Christopher's 
mind  of  what  has  happened  in  the  past,  or  of  your  present 
feelings.  You  think  so  too,  don't  you,  Tina  ?" 

Mr.  Gilfil  paused  again,  but  Caterina  said  nothing.  She 
was  looking  away  from  him,  out  of  the  window,  and  her  eyes 
were  filling  with  tears.  He  rose,  and,  advancing  a  little  to- 
wards her,  held  out  his  hand,  and  said, 

"  Forgive  me,  Caterina,  for  intruding  on  your  feelings  in 
this  way.  I  was  so  afraid  you  might  not  be  aware  how  Miss 
Assher  watched  you.  Remember,  I  entreat  you,  that  the 
peace  of  the  whole  family  depends  on  your  power  of  govern- 
ing yourself.  Only  say  you  forgive  me  before  I  go." 

"  Dear,  good  Maynard,"  she  said,  stretching  out  her  little 
hand,  and  taking  two  of  his  large  fingers  in  her  grasp,  while 
her  tears  flowed  fast ;  "  I  am  very  cross  to  you.  But  my 
heart  is  breaking.  I  don't  know  what  I  do.  Good-bye." 

He  stooped  down,  kissed  the  little  hand,  and  then  left  the 
room. 

"  The  cursed-scoundrelj"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth, 
as  he  dosed  the  door  behind  him?  "  If  it  were  not  for  Sir 
Christopher,  I  should  like  to  pound  him  into  paste  to  poison 
puppies  like  himself." 


140  SCENES   OP   CLEEICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THAT  evening  Captain  Wybrow,  returning  from  a  long  ride 
with  Miss  Assher,  went  up  to  his  dressing-room,  and  seated 
himself  with  an  air  of  considerable  lassitude  before  his  mir- 
ror. The  reflection  there  presented  of  his  exquisite  self  was 
certainly  paler  and  more  worn  than  usual,  and  might  excuse 
the  anxiety  with  which  he  first  felt  his  pulse  and  then  laid  his 
hand  on  his  heart. 

"  It's  a  devil  of  fc  position  this  for  a  man  tu  l>i  in,"  was  the 
train  of  hisHtnought,  as  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  glass, 
while  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  crossed  his  hands  behind 
his  head  ;  "  between  two  jealous  women,  and  both  of  them  as 
ready  to  take  fire  as  tinder.  And  in  my  state  of  health,  too! 
I  should  be  glad  enough  to  run  away  from  the  whole  affair, 
and  go  off  to  some  lotos-eating  place  or  other  where  there 
are  no  women,  or  only  women  who  are  too  sleepy  to  be  jeal- 
ous. Here  am  I,  doing  nothing  to  please  myself,  trying  to 
do  the  best  thing  for  every  body  else,  and  all  the  comfort  I 
get  is  to  have  fire  shot  at  me  from  women's  eyes,  and  venom 
spirted  at  me  from  women's  tongues.  If  Beatrice  takes  an- 
other jealous  fit  into  her  head — and  it's  likely  enough,  Tina 
is  so  unmanageable — I  don't  know  what  storm  she  may  raise. 
And  any  hitch  in  this  marriage,  especially  of  that  sort,  might 
be  a  fatal  business  for  the  old  gentleman.  I  wouldn't  have 
such  a  blow  fall  upon  him  for  a  great  deal.  Besides,  a  man 
must  be  married  some  time  in  his  life,  and  I  could  hardly  do 
better  than  marry  Beatrice.  She's  an  uncommonly  fine  wom- 
an, and  I'm  really  very  fond  of  her ;  and  as  I  shall  let  her  have 
her  own  way  her  temper  won't  signify  much.  I  wish  the 
wedding  was  over  and  done  with,  for  this  fuss  doesn't  suit 
me  at  all.  I  haven't  been  half  so  well  lately.  That  scene 
about  Tina  this  morning  quite  upset  me.  Poor  little  Tina ! 
What  a  little  simpleton  it  was  to  set  her  heart  on  me  in  that 
way  !  But  she  ought  to  see  how  impossible  it  is  that  things 
should  be  different.  If  she  would  but  understand  how  kind- 
ly I  feel  towards  her,  and  make  up  her  mind  to  look  on  me 
as  a  friend ;  but  that  is  what  one  never  can  get  a  woman  to 
do.  Beatrice  is  very  good-natured  ;  I'm  sure  she  would  be 
kind  to  the  little  thing.  It  would  be  a  great  comfort  if  Tina 
would  take  to  Gilfil,  if  it  were  only  in  anger  against  me.  He'd 
make  her  a  capital  husband,  and  I  should  like  to  see  the  lit- 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  141 

tie  grasshopper  happy.  If  I  had  been  in  a  different  position 
I  would  certainly  have  married  her  myself;  but  that  was  out 
of  the  question  with  my  responsibilities  to  Sir  Christopher. 
I  think  a  little  persuasion  from  my  uncle  would  bring  her  to 
accept  Gilfil ;  I  know  she  would  never  be  able  to  oppose  my 
uncle's  wishes.  And  if  they  were  once  married,  she's  such  a 
loving  little  thing,  she  would  soon  be  billing  and  cooing  with 
him  as  if  she  had  never  known  me.  It  would  certainly  be 
the  best  thing  for  her  happiness  if  that  marriage  were  hasten- 
ed. Heigho !  Those  arc  lucky  fellows  that  have  no  women 
falling  in  love  with  them!  it's  a  confounded  responsibility." 

At  this  point  in  his  meditations  he  turned  his  head  a  little, 
so  as  to  get  a  three-quarter  view  of  his  face.  Clearly  it  was 
the  "  dono  infelice  delta  bellezza "  that  laid  these  onerous 
duties  upon  him — an  idea  which  naturally  suggested  that  he 
should  ring  for  his  valet. 

For  the  next  few  days,  however,  there  was  such  a  cessation 
of  threatening  symptoms  as  to  allay  the  anxiety  both  of  Cap- 
tain Wybrow  and  Mr.  Gilfil.  All  earthly  things  have  their 
lull :  even  on  nights  when  the  most  unappeasable  wind  is 
raging,  there  will  be  a  moment  of  stillness  before  it  crashes 
among  the  boughs  again,  and  storms  against  the  windows, 
and  howls  like  a  thousand  lost  demons  through  the  key-holes. 

Miss  Assher  appeared  to  be  in  the  highest  good-humor; 
Captain  Wybrow  was  more  assiduous  than  usual,  and  was 
very  circumspect  in  his  behavior  to  Caterina,  on  whom  Miss 
Assher  bestowed  unwonted  attentions.  The  weather  was  bril- 
liant ;  there  were  riding  excursions  in  the  mornings  and  din- 
ner-parties in  the  evenings.  Consultations  in  the  library  be- 
tween Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Assher  seemed  to  be  leading 
to  a  satisfactory  result ;  and  it  was  understood  that  this  visit 
at  Cheverel  Manor  would  terminate  in  another  fortnight, 
when  the  preparations  for  the  wedding  would  be  carried  for- 
ward with  all  dispatch  at  Farleigji.  The  Baronet  seemed 
every  day  more  radiant.  Accustomed  to  view  people  who 
entered  into  his  plans  by  the  pleasant  light  which  his  own 
strong  will  and  bright  hopefulness  were  always  casting  on 
the  future,  he  saw  nothing  but  personal  charms  and  promising 
domestic  qualities  in  Miss  Assher,  whose  quickness  of  eye  and 
taste  in  externals  formed  a  real  ground  of  sympathy  between 
her  and  Sir  Christopher.  Lady  Cheverel's  enthusiasm  never 
rose  above  the  temperate  mark  of  calm  satisfaction,  and,  hav- 
ing quite  her  share  of  the  critical  acumen  which  characterizes 
the  mutual  estimates  of  the  fair  sex,  she  had  a  more  moderate 
opinion  of  Miss  Assher's  qualities.  She  suspected  that  the 
fair  Beatrice  had  a  sharp  and  imperious  temper ;  and  being 


142  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

herself,  on  principle  and  by  habitual  self-command,  the  most 
deferential  of  wives,  she  noticed  with  disapproval  Miss  As- 
sher's  occasional  air  of  authority  towards  Captain  Wybrow. 
A  proud  woman  who  has  learned  to  submit,  carries  all  her 
pride  to  the  reinforcement  of  her  submission,  and  looks  down 
with  severe  superiority  on  all  feminine  assumption  as  "  unbe- 
coming." Lady  Cheverel,  however,  confined  her  criticisms  to 
the  privacy  of  her  own  thoughts,  and,  with  a  reticence  which 
I  fear  may  seem  incredible,  did  not  use  them  as  a  means  of 
disturbing  her  husband's  complacency. 

And  Oaterina  ?  How  did  she  pass  these  sunny  autumn 
days,  in  which  the  skies  seemed  to  be  smiling  on  the  family 
gladness?  To  her  the  change  in  Miss  Assher's  manner  was  un- 
accountable. Those  compassionate  attentions,  those  smiling 
condescensions,  were  torture  to  Caterina,  who  was  constantly 
tempted  to  repulse  them  with  anger.  She  thought,  "  Perhaps 
Anthony  has  told  her  to  be  kind  to  poor  Tina."  This  was  an  in- 
sult, lie  ought  to  have  known  that  the  mere  presence  of  Miss 
Assher  was  painful  to  her,  that  Miss  Assher's  smiles  scorched 
her,  that  Miss  Assher's  kind  words  were  like  poison-stings  in- 
flaming her  to  madness.  And  he — Anthony — he  was  evident- 
ly repenting  of  the  tenderness  he  had  been  betrayed  into  that 
morning  in  the  drawing-room.  He  was  cold  and  distant  and 
civil  to  her,  to  ward  otf  Beatrice's  suspicions,  and  Beatrice 
could  be  so  gracious  now,  because  she  was  sure  of  Anthony's 
entire  devotion.  Well !  and  so  it  ought  to  be — and  she  ought 
not  to  wish  it  otherwise.  And  yet — oh,  he  was  cruel  to  her. 
She  could  never  have  behaved  so  to  him.  To  make  her  love 
him  so — to  speak  such  tender  words — to  give  her  such  ca- 
resses, and  then  to  behave  as  if  such  things  had  never  been. 
He  had  given  her  the  poison  that  seemed  so  sweet  while  she 
was  drinking  it,  and  now  it  was  in  her  blood,  and  she  was 
helpless. 

With  this  tempest  pent  up  in  her  bosom,  the  poor  child 
went  up  to  her  room  every  night,  and  there  it  all  burst  forth. 
There,  with  loud  whispers  and  sobs,  restlessly  pacing  up  and 
down,  lying  on  the  hard  floor,  courting  cold  and  weariness, 
she  told  to  the  pitiful  listening  night  the  anguish  which  she 
could  pour  into  no  mortal  ear.  But  always  sleep  came  at  last, 
and  always  in  the  morning  the  reactive  calm  that  enabled 
her  to  live  through  the  day. 

It  is  amazing  how  long  a  young  frame  will  go  on  battling 
with  this  sort  of  secret  wretchedness,  and  yet  show  no  traces 
of  the  conflict  for  any  but  sympathetic  eyes.  The  very  del- 
icacy of  Caterina' s  usual  appearance,  her  natural  paleness  and 
habitually  quiet  mouse-like  ways,  made  any  symptoms  of  fa- 


ME.  GLLFIL'S  LOVE-STOKY.  143 

tigue  and  suffering  less  noticeable.  And  her  singing — the 
one  thing  in  which  she  ceased  to  be  passive,  and  became  prom- 
inent— lost  none  of  its  energy.  She  herself  sometimes  won- 
dered how  it  was  that,  whether  she  felt  sad  or  angry,  crush- 
ed with  the  sense  of  Anthony's  indifference,  or  burning  with 
impatience  under  Miss  Assher's  attentions,  it  was  always  a  re- 
lief to  her  to  sing.  Those  full  deep  notes  she  sent  forth  seem- 
ed to  be  lifting  the  pain  from  her  heart — seemed  to  be  carry- 
ing away  the  madness  from  her  brain. 

Thus  Lady  Cheverel  noticed  no  change  in  Caterina,  and  it 
was  only  Mr.  Gilfil  who  discerned  with  anxiety  the  feverish 
spot  that  sometimes  rose  on  her  cheek,  the  deepening  violet 
tint  under  her  eyes,  and  the  strange  absent  glance,  the  un- 
healthy glitter  of  the  beautiful  eyes  themselves. 

But  those  agitated  nights  were  producing  a  more  fatal  ef- 
fect thau  was  represented  by  these  slight  outward  changes. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  following  Sunday,  the  morning  being  rainy,  it  was  de- 
termined that  the  family  should  not  go  to  Cumbermoor 
Church  as  usual,  but  that  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  had  only  an  after- 
noon service  at  his  curacy,  should  conduct  the  morning  ser- 
vice in  the  chapel. 

Just  before  the  appointed  hour  of  eleven,  Caterina  came 
down  into  the  drawing-room,  looking  so  unusually  ill  as  to 
call  forth  an  anxious  inquiry  from  Lady  Cheverel,  who,  on 
learning  that  she  had  a  severe  headache,  insisted  that  she 
should  not  attend  service,  and  at  once  packed  her  up  com- 
fortably on  a  sofa  near  the  fire,  putting  a  volume  of  Tillot- 
son's  Sermons  into  her  hands — as  appropriate  reading,  if  Cat- 
erina should  feel  equal  to  that  means  of  edification. 

Excellent  medicine  for  the  mind  are  the  good  Archbish- 
op's sermons,  but  a  medicine,  unhappily,  not  suited  to  Tina's 
case.  She  sat  with  the  book  open  on  her  knees,  her  dark 
eyes  fixed  vacantly  on  the  portrait  of  that  handsome  Lady 
Cheverel,  wife  of  the  notable  Sir  Anthony.  She  gazed  at  the 
picture  without  thinking  of  it,  and  the  fair  blonde  dame 
seemed  to  look  down  on  her  with  that  benignant  unconcern, 
that  mild  wonder,  with  which  happy  self-possessed  women 
are  apt  to  look  down  on  their  agitated  and  weaker  sisters. 

Caterina  was  thinking  of  the  near  future — of  the  wedding 
that  was  soon  to  come — of  all  she  would  have  to  live  through 
in  the  next  months. 


144  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"I  wish  I  could  be  very  ill,  and  die  before  then,"  she 
thought.  "  When  people  get  very  ill,  they  don't  mind  about 
things.  Poor  Patty  Richards  looked  so  happy  when  she  was 
in  a  decline.  She  didn't  seem  to  care  any  more  about  her 
loveV  that  she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to,  and  she  liked 
the  smell  of  the  flowers  so,  that  I  used  to  take  her.  Oh,  if  I 
could  but  like  any  thing — if  I  could  but  think  about  any 
thing  else !  If  these  dreadful  feelings  would  go  away,  I 
wouldn't  mind  about  not  being  happy.  I  wouldn't  want 
any  thing — and  I  could  do  what  would  please  Sir  Christo- 
pher and  Lady  Cheverel.  But  when  that  rage  and  anger 
comes  into  me,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't  feel  the 
ground  under  me ;  I  only  feel  my  head  and  heart  beating, 
and  it  seems  as  if  I  must  do  something  dreadful.  Oh!  I 
wonder  if  any  one  ever  felt  like  me  before.  I  must  be  very 
wicked.  But  God  will  have  pity  on  me;  He  knows  all  I 
have  to  bear." 

In  this  way  the  time  wore  on  till  Tina  heard  the  sound  of 
voices  along  the  passage,  and  became  conscious  that  the  vol- 
ume of  Tillotson  had  slipped  on  the  floor.  She  had  only  just 
picked  it  up,  and  seen  with  alarm  that  the  pages  were  bent, 
when  Lady  Assher,  Beatrice,  and  Captain  Wybrow  entered, 
all  with  that  brisk  and  cheerful  air  which  a  sermon  is  often 
observed  to  produce  when  it  is  quite  finished. 

Lady  Assher  at  once  came  and  seated  herself  by  Caterina. 
Her  ladyship  had  been  considerably  refreshed  by  a  doze,  and 
was  in  great  force  for  monologue. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Miss  Sarti,  and  how  do  you  feel  now  ? — a 
little  better,  I  see.  I  thought  you  would  be,  sitting  quietly 
here.  These  headaches,  now,  are  all  from  weakness.  You 
must  not  over  exert  yourself,  and  you  must  take  bitters.  I 
used  to  have  just  the  same  sort  of  headaches  when  I  was  your 
age,  and  old  Dr.  Samson  used  to  say  to  my  mother, '  Madam, 
what  your  daughter  suffers  from  is  weakness.'  He  was  such 
a  curious  old  man,  was  Dr.  Samson.  But  I  wish  you  could 
have  heard  the  sermon  this  morning.  Such  an  excellent  ser- 
mon !  It  was  about  the  ten  virgins :  five  of  them  were  fool- 
ish, and  five  were  clever,  you  know  ;  and  Mr.  Gilfil  explained 
all  that.  What  a  very  pleasant  young  man  he  is  !  so  very 
quiet  and  agreeable,  and  such  a  good  hand  at  whist.  I  wish 
we  had  him  at  Farleigh.  Sir  John  would  have  liked  him  be- 
yond any  thing  ;  he  is  so  good-tempered  at  cards,  and  he  was 
such  a  man  for  cards,  was  Sir  John.  And  our  rector  is  a  very 
irritable  man ;  he  can't  bear  to  lose  his  money  at  cards.  I 
don't  think  a  clergyman  ought  to  mind  about  losing  his 
money  ;  do  you  ? — do  you,  now  ?" 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  145 

"  Oh  pray,  Lady  Assher,"  interposed  Beatrice,  in  her  usual 
tone  of  superiority, "  do  not  weary  poor  Caterina  with  such 
uninteresting  questions.  Your  head  seems  very  bad,  still, 
dear,"  she  continued  in  a  condoling  tone,  to  Caterina ;  "  do 
take  my  vinaigrette,  and  keep  it  in  your  pocket.  It  will  per- 
haps refresh  you  now  and  then." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  answered  Caterina ;  "  I  will  not  take  it 
away  from  you." 

"  Indeed,  dear,  I  never  use  it ;  you  must  take  it,"  Miss  As- 
sher persisted,  holding  it  close  to  Tina's  hand.  Tina  colored 
deeply,  pushed  the  vinaigrette  away  with  some  impatience, 
and  said,  "  Thank  you,  I  never  use  those  things.  I  don't  like 
vinaigrettes." 

Miss  Assher  returned  the  vinaigrette  to  her  pocket  in  sur- 
prise and  haughty  silence,  and  Captain  Wybrow,  who  had 
looked  on  in  some  alarm,  said  hastily, "  See  !  it  is  quite  bright 
out  of  doors  now.  There  is  time  for  a  walk  before  luncheon. 
Come,  Beatrice,  put  on  your  hat  and  cloak,  and  let  us  have  half 
an  hour's  walk  on  the  gravel." 

"  Yes,  do,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Assher,  "  and  I  will  go  and 
see  if  Sir  Christopher  is  having  his  walk  in  the  gallery." 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  behind  the  two  ladies, 
Captain  Wybrow,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  turned 
toward  Caterina,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  earnest  remonstrance, 
"  My  dear  Ca.terijia^Jetjnc  beg  of  you  to  exercise  more  con- 
trol over  your  1^eTings;~yQu_are~i'eally  rude  to  Miss  Assher, 
and  I  can  see  that  she  is  quite  hurt.  Consider  how  strange 
your  behavior  must  appear  tq  her.  She  will  wonder  what 
can  be  the  cause  of  it.  Come,  dear  Tina,"  he  added,  approach- 
ing her,  and  attempting  to  take  her  hand ;  "  for  your  own 
sake  let  me  entreat  you  to  receive  her  attentions  politely. 
She  really  feels  very  kindly  towards  you,  and  I  should  be  so 
happy  to  see  you  friends." 

Caterina  was  already  in  such  a  state  of  diseased  suscepti- 
bility that  the  most  innocent  words  from  Captain  Wybrow 
would  have  been  irritating  to  her,  as  the  whirr  of  the  most 
delicate  wing  will  afflict  a  nervous  patient.  But  this  tone  of 
benevolent  remonstrance  was  intolerable.  He  had  inflicted 
a  great  and  unrepented  injury  on  her,  and  now  he  assumed 
an  air  of  benevolence  towards  her.  This  was  a  new  outrage. 
His  profession  of  good-will  was  insolence. 

Caterina  snatched  away  her  hand  and  said  indignantly, 
"  Leave  me  to  myself,  Captain  Wybrow  !  I  do  not  disturb 
you." 

"  Caterina,  why  will  you  be  so  violent — so  unjust  to  me  ? 
It  is  for  you  that  I  feel  anxious.  Miss  Assher  has  already 


146  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

noticed  how  strange  your  behavior  is  both  to  her  and  me, 
and  it  puts  me  into  a  very  difficult  position.  What  can  I  say 
to  her?" 

"  Say  ?"  Caterina  burst  forth  with  intense  bitterness,  ris- 
ing, and  moving  towards  the  door ;  "  say  that  I  am  a  poor 
silly  girl,  and  have  fallen  in  love  with  you,  and  am  jealous  of 
her ;  but  that  you  have  never  had  any  feeling  but  pity  for 
me — you  _h*Yje  "<>vf>r  hfiftaved  with  any  thing  more  than 
friendliness  to  me.  Tell  iier~tKaT,"ahd  she  will  think  all  the 
better  of  you." 

Tina  uttered  this  as  the  bitterest  sarcasm  her  ideas  would 
furnish  her  with,  not  having  the  faintest  suspicion  that  the 
sarcasm  derived  any  of  its  bitterness  from  truth.  Under- 
neath all  her  sense  of  wrong,  which  was  rather  instinctive 
than  reflective — underneath  all  the  madness  of  her  jealousy, 
and  her  ungovernable  impulses  of  resentment  and  vindictive- 
ness — underneath  all  this  scorching  passion  there  were  still 
left  some  hidden  crystal  dews  of  trust,  of  self-reproof,  of  be- 
lief that  Anthony  was  trying  to  do  the  right.  Love  had  not 
all  gone  to  feed  the  fires  of  hatred.  Tina  still  trusted  that 
Anthony  felt  more  for  her  than  lie  seemed  to  feel;  she  was 
still  far  from  suspecting  him  of  a  wrong  which  a  .\\ioman  re- 
sents even  more  than  inconstancy.  And  she  threw  out  this 
taunt  simply  as  the  most  intense  expression  she  could  find 
for  the  anger  of  the  moment. 

As  she  stood  nearly  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  little 
body  trembling  under  the  shock  of  passions  too  strong  for  it, 
her  very  lips  pale,  and  her  eyes  gleaming,  the  door  opened, 
and  Miss  Assher  appeared,  tall,  blooming,  and  splendid,  in  her 
walking  costume.  As  she  entered,  her  face  wore  the  smile 
appropriate  to  the  exits  and  entrances  of  a  young  lady  who 
feels  that  her  presence  is  an  interesting  fact ;  but  the  next 
moment  she  looked  at  Caterina  with  grave  surprise,  and  then 
threw  a  glance  of  angry  suspicion  at  Captain  Wybrow,  who 
wore  an  air  of  weariness  and  vexation. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  too  much  engaged  to  walk  out,  Cap- 
tain Wybrow  ?  I  will  go  alone." 

"  No,  no,  I  am  coming,"  he  answered,  hurrying  towards 
her,  and  leading  her  out  of  the  room ;  leaving  poor  Caterina 
to  feel  all  the  reaction  of  shame  and  self-reproach  after  her 
outburst  of  passion. 


MB.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STOBY.  147 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  PEAY,  what  is  likely  to  be  the  next  scene  in  the  drama 
'between  you  and  Miss  Sarti?"  said  Miss  Assher  to  Captain 
Wybrow  as  soon  as  they  were  out  on  the  gravel.  "  It  would 
be  agreeable  to  have  some  idea  of  what  is  coming." 

Captain  Wybrow  was  silent.  He  felt  out  of  humor,  wea- 
ried, annoyed.  There  come  moments  when  one  almost  deter- 
mines never  again  to  oppose  any  thing  but  dead  silence  to  an 
angry  woman.  "Now  then,  confound  it,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  I'm  going  to  be  battered  on  the  other  flank."  He 
looked  resolutely  at  the  horizon,  with  something  more  like  a 
fro  wit  on  his  face  than  Beatrice  had  ever  seen  there. 

After  a  pause  of  two  or  three  mmutes,  she  continued  in  a 
haughtier  tone,  "  I  suppose  you  are  aware,  Captain  Wy- 
orow,  that  1  expect  an  explanation  of  what  I  have  just  seen." 

"  I  have  no  explanation,  my  dear  Beatrice,"  he  answered 
at  last,  making  a  strong  eifort  over  himself,  "except  what  I 
have  already  given  you.  I  hoped  you  would  never  recur  to 
the  subject." 

"  Your  explanation,  however,  is  very  far  from  satisfactory. 
I  can  only  say  that  the  airs  Miss  Sarti  thinks  herself  entitled 
to  put  on  towards  you,  are  quite  incompatible  with  your  po- 
sition as  regards  me.  And  her  behavior  to  me  is  most  insult- 
ing. I  shall  certainly  not  stay  in  the  house  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, and  mamma  must  state  the  reasons  to  Sir  Chris- 
topher." 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Captain  Wybrow,  his  irritation  giving 
way  to  alarm,  "  I  beseech  you  to  be  patient,  and  exercise  your 
good  feelings  in  this  affair.  It  is  very  painful,  I  know,  but  I 
am  sure  you  would  be  grieved  to  injure  poor  Caterina — to 
bring  down  my  uncle's  anger  upon  her.  Consider  what  a 
poor  little  dependent  thing  she  is." 

"  It  is  very  adroit  of  you  to  make  these  evasions,  but  do 
not  suppose  that  they  deceive  me.  Miss  Sarti  would  never 
dare  to  behave  to  you  as  she  does,  if  you  had  not  flirted  with 
her,  or  made  love  to  her.  I  suppose  she  considers  your  en- 
gagement to  me  a  breach  of  faith  to  her.  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you,  certainly,  for  making  me  Miss  Sard's  rival.  You  have 
told  me  a  falsehood,  Captain  Wybrow." 

"  Beatrice,  I  solemnly  declare  to  you  that  Caterina  is  noth- 
ing more  to  me  than  a  girl  I  naturally  feel  kindly  to — as  a  fac 


148  SCENES    OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

vorite  of  my  uncle's  and  a  nice  little  thing  enough.  I  should 
be  glad  to  see  her  married  to  Gilfil  to-morrow  ;  that's  a  good 
proof  that  I'm  not  in  love  with  her,  I  should  think.  As  to  the 
past,  I  may  have  shown  her  little  attentions,  which  she  has 
exaggerated  and  misinterpreted.  What  man  is  not  liable  to 
that  sort  o7~thingiL' 

"But~wfiat  can  she  found  her  behavior  on?  What  had 
she  been  saying  to  you  this'morning  to  make  her  tremble  and 
turn  pale  in  that  way  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  just  said  something  about  her  be- 
having peevishly.  With  that  Italian  blood  of  hers,  there's  no 
knowing  how  she  may  take  what  one  says.  She's  a  fierce  lit- 
tle thing,  though  she  seems  so  quiet  generally." 

"  But  she  ought  to  be  made  to  know  how  unbecoming  and 
indelicate  her  conduct  is.  For  my  part,  I  wonder  Lady  Chev- 
erel  has  not  noticed  her  short  answers  and  the  airs  she  puts 
on." 

"  Let  me  beg  of  you,  Beatrice,  not  to  hint  any  thing  of  the 
kind  to  Lady  Cheverel.  You  must  have  observed  how  strict 
my  aunt  is.  It  never  enters  her  head  that  a  girl  can  be  in 
love  with  a  man  who  has  not  made  her  an  offer." 

"  Well,  I  shall  let  Miss  Sarti  know  myself  that  I  have  ob- 
served her  conduct,  It  will  be  only  a  charity  to  her." 

"Nay,  dear,  that  will  be  doing  nothing  but  harm.  Cate- 
rina's  temper  is  peculiar.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  will  be 
to  leave  her  to  herself  as  much  as  possible.  It  Avill  all  wear  off. 
I've  no  doubt  she'll  be  married  to  Gilfil  before  long.  Girls' 
fancies  are  easily  diverted  from  one  object  to  another.  By 
<fove,  what  a  rate  my  heart  is  galloping  at !  These  confound- 
ed palpitations  get  worse  instead  of  better." 

Thus  ended  the  conversation,  so  far  as  it  concerned  Cate- 
rina,  not  without  leaving  a  distinct  resolution  in  Captain  Wy- 
brow's  mind — a  resolution  carried  into  effect  the  next  day 
when  he  was  in  the  library  with  Sir  Christopher  for  the  pur- 
pose of  discussing  some  arrangements  about  the  approaching 
marriage. 

"  By-the-by,"  he  said  carelessly,  when  the  business  came 
to  a  pause,  and  he  was  sauntering  round  the  room  with  his 
hands  in  his  coat-pockets,  surveying  the  backs  of  the  books 
that  lined  the  walls, "  when  is  the  wedding  between  Gilfil 
and  Caterina  to  come  off,  sir  ?  I've  a  fellow-feeling  for  a  poor 
devil  so  many  fathoms  deep  in  love  as  Maynard.  Why 
shouldn't  their  marriage  happen  as  soon  as  ours  ?  I  suppose 
he  has  come  to  an  understanding  with  Tina  ?" 

"  Why,"  said  Sir  Christopher, "  I  did  think  of  letting  the 
thing  be  until  old  Crichley  died ;  he  can't  hold  out  very  long, 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  149 

poor  fellow  ;  and  then  Maynard  might  have  entered  into  mat- 
rimony and  the  rectory  both  at  once.  But,  after  all,  that 
really  is  no  good  reason  for  waiting.  There  is  no  need  for 
them  to  I  save  the  INIanor  when  they  are  married.  The  little 
monkey  is  quite  old  enough.  It  would  be  pretty  to  see  her 
a  matron,  with  a  baby  about  the  size  of  a  kitten  in  her 
arms." 

"  I  think  that  system  of  waiting  is  always  bad.  And  if  I 
can  further  any  settlement  you  would  like  to  make  on  Cate- 
rina,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  carry  out  your  wishes." 

"My  dear  boy,  that's  very  good  of  you;  but  Maynard 
will  have  enough  ;  and  from  what  I  know  of  him — and  I  know 
him  well — I  think  he  would  rather  provide  for  Caterina  him- 
self. However,  now  you  have  put  this  matter  into  my  head, 
I  begin  to  blame  myself  for  not  having  thought  of  it  before. 
I've  been  so  wrapt  up  in  Beatrice  and  you,  you  rascal,  that  I 
had  really  forgotten  poor  Maynard.  And  he's  older  than 
you — it's  high  time  he  was  settled  in  life  as  a  family  man." 

Sir  Christopher  paused,  took  snuff  in  a  meditative  manner, 
and  presently  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  Anthony,  who 
was  humming  a  tune  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  "  Yes,  yes. 
It  will  be  a  capital  plan  to  finish  off  all  our  family  business 
at  once." 

Hiding  out  with  Miss  Assher  the  same  morning,  Captain 
Wybrow  mentioned  to  her,  incidentally,  that  Sir  Christopher 
was  anxious  to  bring  about  the  wedding  between  Gilfil  and 
Caterina  as  soon  as  possible,  and  that  he,  for  his  part,  should 
do  all  he  could  to  further  the  affair.  It  would  be  the  best 
thing  in  the  world  for  Tina,  in  whose  welfare  he  was  really 
interested. 

With  Sir  Christopher  there  was  never  any  long  interval 
between  purpose  and  execution.  He  made  up  his  mind 
promptly,  and  he  acted  promptly.  On  rising  from  luncheon, 
he  said  to  Mr.  Gilfil, "  Come  with  me  into  the  library,  May- 
nard. I  want  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

"  Maynard,  my  boy,"  he  began,  as  soon  as  they  were  seat- 
ed, tapping  his  snuff-box,  and  looking  radiant  at  the  idea  of 
the  unexpected  pleasure  he  was  about^to  give, "  why  shouldn't 
we  have  two  happy  couples  instead  of  one,  before  the  au- 
tumn is  over,  eh  ? 

"  Eh  ?"  he  repeated,  after  a  moment's  pause,  lengthening 
out  the  monosyllable,  taking  a  slow  pinch,  and  looking  up 
at  Maynard  with  a  sly  smile. 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I  understand  you,  sir,"  answered 
Mr.  Gilfil,  who  felt  annoyed  at  the  consciousness  that  he  was 
turning  pale. 


150  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Not  understand  me,  you  rogue  ?  You  know  very  well 
whose  happiness  lies  nearest  to  my  heart  after  Anthony's. 
You  know  you  let  me  into  your  secrets  long  ago,  so  there's 
no  confession  to  make.  Tina's  quite  old  enough  to  be  a 
grave  little  wife  now ;  and  though  the  Rectory's  not  ready 
for  you,  that's  no  matter.  My  lady  and  I  shall  feel  all  the 
more  comfortable  for  having  you  with  us.  We  should  miss 
our  little  singing-bird  if  we  lost  her  all  at  once." 

Mr.  Gilfil  felt  himself  in  a  painfully  difficult  position.  He 
dreaded  that  Sir  Christopher  should  surmise  or  discover  the 
true  state  of  Caterina's  feelings,  and  yet  he  was  obliged  to 
make  those  feelings  the  ground  of  his  reply. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  he  at  last  said  with  some  effort,  "  you  will 
not  suppose  that  I  am  not  alive  to  your  goodness — that  I  am 
not  grateful  for  your  fatherly  interest  in  my  happiness ;  but 
I  fear  that  Caterina's  feelings  towards  me  are  not  such  as  to 
warrant  the  hope  that  she  would  accept  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage from  me." 

"  Have  you  ever  asked  her  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  But  we  often  know  these  things  too  well  with- 
out asking." 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  the  little  monkey  must  love  you.  Why, 
you  were  her  first  playfellow ;  and  I  remember  she  used  to 
cry  if  you  cut  your  finger.  Besides,  she  has  always  silently 
admitted  that  you  were  her  lover.  You  know  I  have  always 
spoken  of  you  to  her  in  that  light.  I  took  it  for  granted  you 
had  settled  the  business  between  yourselves ;  so  did  Antho- 
ny. Anthony  thinks  she's  in  love  with  you,  and  he  has 
young  eyes,  which  are  apt  enough  to  see  clearly  in  these 
matters.  He  was  talking  to  me  about  it  this  morning,  and 
pleased  me  very  much  by  the  friendly  interest  he  showed  in 
you  and  Tina." 

The  blood — more  than  was  wanted — rushed  back  to  Mr. 
Gilfil's  face;  he  set  his  teeth  and  clenched  his  hands  in  the 
effort  to  repress  a  burst  of  indignation.  Sir  Christopher  no- 
ticed the  flush',  but  thought  it  indicated  the  fluctuation  of 
hope  and  fear  about  Caterina.  He  went  on : 

"  You're  too  modest  by  half,  Maynard.  A  fellow  who  can 
take  a  five-barred  gate  as  you  can,  ought  not  to  be  so  faint- 
hearted. If  you  can't  speak  to  her  yourself,  leave  me  to  talk 
to  her." 

"  Sir  Christopher,"  said  poor  Maynard  earnestly,  "  I  shall 
really  feel  it  the  greatest  kindness  you  can  possibly  show  me 
not  to  mention  this  subject  to  Caterina  at  present.  I  think 
such  a  proposal,  made  prematurely,  might  only  alienate  her 
from  me." 


MB.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STOKY.  151 

Sir  Christopher  was  getting  a  little  displeased  at  this  con- 
tradiction. His  tone  became  a  little  sharper  as  he  said, 
"  Have  you  any  grounds  to  state  for  this  opinion,  beyond 
your  general  notion  that  Tina  is  not  enough  in  love  with 
you  ?" 

"  I  can  state  none  beyond  my  own  very  strong  impression 
that  she  does  not  love  me  well  enough  to  marry  me." 

"  Then  I  think  that  ground  is  worth  nothing  at  all.  I  am 
tolerably  correct  in  my  judgment  of  people ;  and  if  I  am  not 
very  much  deceived  in  Tina,  she  looks  forward  to  nothing 
else  but  to  your  being  her  husband.  Leave  me  to  manage 
the  matter  as  I  think  best.  You  may  rely  on  me  that  I  shall 
do  no  harm  to  your  cause,  Maynard." 

Mr.  Gilh'l,  afraid  to  say  more,  yet  wretched  in  the  pros- 
pect of  what  might  result  from  Sir  Christopher's  determina- 
tion, quitted  the  library  in  a  state  of  mingled  indignation 
against  Captain  Wybrow,  and  distress  for  himself  and  Cate- 
rina.  What  would  she  think  of  him  ?  She  might  suppose 
that  he  had  instigated  or  sanctioned  Sir  Christopher's  pro- 
ceeding. He  should  perhaps  not  have  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  her  on  the  subject  in  time ;  he  would  write  her 
a  note,  and  carry  it  up  to  her  room  after  the  dressing-bell  had 
rung.  No ;  that  would  agitate  her,  and  unfit  her  for  appear- 
ing at  dinner,  and  passing  the  evening  calmly.  He  would 
defer  it  till  bed-time.  After  prayers,  he  contrived  to  lead  her 
back  to  the  drawing-room,  and  to  put  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
She  carried  it  up  to  her  own  room,  wondering,  and  there 
read — 

"DEAR  CATERING, — Do  not  suspect  for  a  moment  that  any 
thing  Sir  Christopher  may  say  to  you  about  our  marriage  has 
been  prompted  by  me.  I  have  done  all  I  dare  do  to  dissuade 
him  from  urging  the  subject,  and  have  only  been  prevented 
from  speaking  more  strongly  by  the  dread  of  provoking  ques- 
tions which  I  could  not  answer  without  causing  you  fresh 
misery.  I  write  this,  both  to  prepare  you  for  any  thing  Sir 
Christopher  may  say,  and  to  assure  you — but  I  hope  you  al- 
ready believe  it — that  your  feelings  are  sacred  to  me.  I  would 
rather  part  with  the  dearest  hope  of  my  life  than  be  the  means 
of  adding  to  your  trouble. 

"It  is  Captain  Wybrow  whohasprompted  Sir  Christopher  to 
take  up  the  subject  at  this  moment.  I  tell  you  this,  to  save  you 
from  hearing  it  suddenly  when  your  are  with  Sir  Christopher. 
You  see  now  what  sort  of  stuff  that  dastard's  heart  is  made  of. 
Trust  in  me  always,  dearest  Caterina,  as — whatever  may  come 
— your  faithful  friend  and  brother,  MAYNARD  GILFIL." 


152  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Caterina  was  at  first  too  terribly  stung  by  the  words  about 
Captain  Wybrow  to  think  of  the  difficulty  which  threatened 
her — to  think  either  of  what  Sir  Christopher  would  say  to  her, 
or  of  what  she  could  say  in  reply.  Bitter  sense  of  injury,  fierce 
resentment,  left  no  room  for  fear.  With  the  poisoned  garment 
upon  him,  the  victim  writhes  under  the  torture — he  has  no 
thought  of  the  coming  death. 

Anthony  could  do  this ! — Of  this  there  could  be  no  explana- 
tion but  the  coolest  contempt  for  her  feelings,  the  basest  sacri- 
fice of  all  the  consideration  and  tenderness  he  owed  her  to  the 
ease  of  his  position  with  Miss  Assher.  No.  It  was  worse  than 
that :  it  was  deliberate,  gratuitous  cruelty.  He  wanted  to 
show  her  how  he  despised  her ;  he  wanted  to  make  her  feel 
her  folly  in  having  ever  believed  that  he  loved  her. 

The  last  crystal  drops  of  trust  and  tenderness,  she  thought, 
were  dried  up ;  all  was  parched,  fiery  hatred.  Now  she  need 
no  longer  check  her  resentment  by  the  fear  of  doing  him  an 
injustice  :  he  had  trifled  with  her,  as  Maynard  had  said  ;  he 
had  been  reckless  of  her;  and  now  he  was  base  and  cruel. 
She  had  cause  enough  for  her  bitterness  and  anger ;  they  were 
not  so  wicked  as  they  had  seemed  to  her. 

As  these  thoughts  were  hurrying  after  each  other  like  so 
many  sharp  throbs  of  fevered  pain,  she  shed  no  tear.  She  paced 
restlessly  to  and  fro,  as  her  habit  was — her  hands  clenched, 
her  eyes  gleaming  fiercely  and  wandering  uneasily,  as  if  in 
search  of  something  on  which  she  might  throw  herself  like  a 
tigress. 

"  If  I  could  speak  to  him,"  she  whispered,  "  and  tell  him  I 
hate  him,  I  despise  him,  I  loathe  him  !" 

Suddenly,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  struck  her,  she  drew  a 
key  from  her  pocket,  and,  unlocking  an  inlaid  desk  where  she 
stored  up  her  keepsakes,  took  from  it  a  small  miniature.  It 
was  in  a  very  slight  gold  frame,  Avith  a  ring  to  it,  as  if  intend- 
ed to  be  Avorn  on  a  chain ;  and  under  the  glass  at  the  back 
were  two  locks  of  hair,  one  dark  and  the  other  auburn,  ar- 
ranged in  a  fantastic  knot.  It  was  Anthony's  secret  present 
to  her  a  year  ago — a  copy  he  had  had  made  specially  for  her. 
For  the  last  month  she  had  not  taken  it  from  its  hiding-place : 
there  was  no  need  to  heighten  the  vividness  of  the  past.  But 
now  she  clutched  it  fiercely,  and  dashed  it  across  the  room 
against  the  bare  hearthstone. 

Will  she  crush  it  under  her  feet,  and  grind  it  under  her 
high-heeled  shoe,  till  every  trace  of  those  false,  cruel  features 
is  gone  ? 

Ah,  no  !  She  rushed  across  the  room  ;  but  when  she  saw 
the  little  treasure  she  had  cherished  so  fondly,  so  often  smoth- 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STOKY.  153 

ered  with  kisses,  so  often  laid  under  her  pillow,  and  remember- 
ed with  the  first  return  of  consciousness  in  the  morning — when 
she  saw  this  one  visible  relic  of  the  too  happy  past  lying  with 
the  glass  shivered,  the  hair  fallen  out,  the  thin  ivory  cracked, 
there  was  a  revulsion  of  the  overstrained  feeling :  relenting 
came,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

Look  at  her  stooping  down  to  gather  up  her  treasure, 
searching  for  the  hair  and  replacing  it,  and  then  mournfully 
examining  the  crack  that  disfigures  the  once-loved  image. 
There  is  no  glass  now  to  guard  either  the  hair  or  the  por- 
trait; but  see  how  carefully  she  wraps  delicate  paper  round 
it,  and  locks  it  up  again  in  its  old  place.  Poor  child!  God 
*.end  the  relenting  may  always  come  before  the  worst  irrev- 
ocable deed  ! 

This  action  had  quieted  her,  and  she  sat  down  to  read  May- 
nard's  letter  again.  She  read  it  two  or  three  times  without 
seeming  to  take  in  the  sense  ;  her  apprehension  was  dulled  by 
the  passion  of  the  last  hour,  and  she  found  it  difficult  to  call  up 
the  ideas'suggested  by  the  words.  At  last  she  began  to  have  a 
distinct  conception  of  the  impending  interview  with  Sir  Chris- 
topher. The  idea  of  displeasing  the  Baronet,  of  whom  every 
one  at  the  Manor  stood  in  awe,  frightened  her  so  much  that 
she  thought  it  would  be  impossible  to  resist  his  wish.  He  be- 
lieved that  she  loved  Maynard ;  he  had  always  spoken  as  if 
he  were  quite  sure  of  it.  How  could  she  tell  him  he  was  de- 
ceived— and  what  if  he  were  to  ask  her  whether  she  loved 
any  body  else  ?  To  have  Sir  Christopher  looking  angrily  at 
her,  was  more  than  she  could  bear,  even  in  imagination.  He 
had  always  been  so  good  to  her !  Then  she  began  to  think 
of  the  pain  she  might  give  him,  and  the  more  selfish  distress 
of  fear  gave  way  to  the  distress  of  affection.  Unselfish  tears 
began  to  flow,  and  sorrowful  gratitude  to  Sir  Christopher 
helped  to  awaken  her  sensibility  to  Mr.  Gilfil's  tenderness  and 
generosity. 

"  Dear,  good  Maynard  ! — what  a  poor  return  I  make  him ! 
If  I  could  but  have  loved  him  instead — but  I  can  never  love 
or  care  for  any  thing  again.  My  heart  is  broken." 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

THE  next  morning  the  dreaded  moment  came.  Caterina, 
stupefied  by  the  suffering  of  the  previous  night,  with  that 
dull  mental  aching  which  follows  on  acute  anguish,  was  in 


154  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Lady  Cheverel's  sitting-room,  copying  out  some  charity-lists, 
when  her  ladyship  came  in,  and  said, 

"  Tina,  Sir  Christopher  wants  you ;  go  down  into  the  li- 
brary." 

She  went  down  trembling.  As  soon  as  she  entered,  Sir 
Christopher,  who  was  seated  near  his  writing-table,  said, 
"  Now,  little  monkey,  come  and  sit  down  by  me;  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 

Caterina  took  a  footstool,  and  seated  herself  on  it  at  the 
Baronet's  feet.  It  was  her  habit  to  sit  on  these  low  stools, 
and  in  this  way  she  could  hide  her  face  better.  She  put  her 
little  arm  round  his  leg,  and  leaned  her  cheek  against  his 
knee. 

"  Why,  you  seem  out  of  spirits  this  morning,  Tina.  What's 
the  matter,  eh  ?" 

"  Nothing,  Padroncello ;  only  my  head  is  bad." 

"  Poor  monkey  !  Well,  now,  wouldn't  it  do  the  head  good 
if  I  were  to  promise  you  a  good  husband,  and  smart  little 
wedding-gowns,  and  by-and-by  a  house  of  your  own,  where 
you  would  be  a  little  mistress,  and  Padroncello  would  come 
and  see  you  sometimes  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  I  shouldn't  like  ever  to  be  married.  Let  me 
always  stay  with  you  !" 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  little  simpleton.  I  shall  get  old  and  tire- 
some, and  there  will  be  Anthony's  children  putting  your  nose 
out  of  joint.  You  will  want  some  one  to  love  you  best  of 
all,  and  you  must  have  children  of  your  own  to  love.  I  can't 
have  you  withering  away  into  an  old  maid.  I  hate  old 
maids;  they  make  me  dismal  to  look  at  them.  I  never  see 
Bharp  without  shuddering.  My  little  black-eyed  monkey 
was  never  meant  for  any  thing  so  ugly.  And  there's  May- 
nard  Gilfil,  the  best  man  in  the  county,  worth  his  weight  in 
gold,  heavy  as  he  is  ;  he  loves  you  better  than  his  eyes.  And 
you  love  him  too,  you  silly  monkey,  whatever  you  may  say 
about  not  being  married." 

"  No,  no,  dear  Padroncello,  do  not  say  so ;  I  could  not 
marry  him." 

"  Why  not,  you  foolish  child  ?  You  don't  know  your  own 
mind.  Why,  it  is  plain  to  every  body  that  you  love  him.  My 
lady  has  all  along  said  she  was  sure  you  loved  him — she  has 
seen  what  little  princess  airs  you  put  on  to  him ;  and  Antho- 
ny too,  he  thinks  you  are  in  love  with  Gilfil.  Come,  what 
has  made  you  take  it  into  your  head  that  you  wouldn't  like 
to  marry  him  ?" 

Caterina  was  now  sobbing  too  deeply  to  make  any  answer. 
Sir  Christopher  joatted  her  on  the  buck  and  said,  "  Come, 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  155 

come ;  why,  Tina,  you  are  not  well  this  morning.  Go  and 
rest,  little  one.  You  will  see  things  in  quite  another  light 
when  you  are  well.  Think  over  what  I  have  said,  and  re- 
member there  is  nothing,  after  Anthony's  marriage,  that  I 
have  set  my  heart  on  so  much  as  seeing  you  and  Maynard 
settled  for  life.  I  must  have  no  whims  and  follies — no  non- 
sense." This  was  said  with  a  slight  severity;  but  he  pres- 
ently added,  in  a  soothing  tone,  "  There,  there,  stop  crying, 
and  be  a  good  little  monkey.  Go  and  lie  down  and  get  to 
sleep." 

Caterina  slipped  from  the  stool  on  to  her  knees,  took  the 
old  Baronet's  hand,  covered  it  with  tears  and  kisses,  and 
then  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Before  the  evening,  Captain  Wybrow  had  heard  from  his 
uncle  the  result  of  the  interview  with  Caterina.  He  thought, 
"  If  I  could  have  a  long  quiet  talk  with  her,  I  could  perhaps 
persuade  her  to  look  more  reasonably  at  things.  But  there's 
no  speaking  to  her  in  the  house  without  being  interrupted, 
and  I  can  hardly  see  her  anywhere  else  without  Beatrice's 
finding  it  out."  At  last  he  determined  to  make  it  a  matter 
of  confidence  with  Miss  Assher — to  tell  her  that  he  wished 
to  talk  to  Caterina  quietly  for  the  sake  of  bringing  her  to  a 
calmer  state  of  mind,  and  persuade  her  to  listen  to  Gilfil's  af- 
fections. He  was  very  much  pleased  with  this  judicious  and 
candid  plan,  and  in  the  course  of  the  evening  he  had  arranged 
with  himself  the  time  and  place  of  meeting,  and  had  com- 
municated his  purpose  to  Miss  Assher,  who  gave  her  entire 
approval.  Anthony,  she  thought,  would  do  well  to  speak 
plainly  and  seriously  to  Miss  Sard.  He  was  really  very  pa- 
tient and  kind  to  her,  considering  how  she  behaved. 

Tina  had  kept  her  room  all  that  day,  and  had  been  care- 
fully tended  as  an  invalid,  Sir  Christopher  having  told  her 
ladyship  how  matters  stood.  This  tendance  was  so  irksome 
to  Caterina,  she  felt  so  uneasy  under  attentions  and  kindness 
that  were  based  on  a  misconception,  that  she  exerted  herself 
to  appear  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  and  declared  her- 
self well,  though  head  and  heai*t  were  throbbing.  To  be  con- 
fined in  her  own  room  was  intolerable ;  it  was  wretched 
enough  to  be  looked  at  and  spoken  to,  but  it  was  more 
wretched  to  be  left  alone.  She  was  frightened  at  her  own 
sensations;  she  was  frightened  at  the  imperious  vividness 
with  which  pictures  of  the  past  and  future  thrust  themselves 
on  her  imagination.  And  there  was  another  feeling,  too, 
which  made  her  want  to  be  down  stairs  and  moving  about. 
Perhaps  she  might  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Cap- 
tain Wybrow  alone — of  speaking  those  words  of  hatred  and 


]56  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

scorn  that  burned  on  her  tongue.  That  opportunity  offered 
itself  in  a  very  unexpected  manner. 

Lady  Cheverel  having  sent  Caterina  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  to  fetch  some  patterns  of  embroidery  from  her  sitting- 
room,  Captain  Wybrow  presently  walked  out  after  her,  and 
met  her  as  she  was  returning  down  stairs. 

"  Caterina,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  her  arm  as  she 
was  hurrying  on  without  looking  at  him,  "  will  you  meet  me 
in  the  Rookery  at  twelve  o'clock  ?  I  must  speak  to  you,  and 
we  shall  be  in  privacy  there.  I  can  not  speak  to  you  in  the 
house." 

To  his  surprise,  there  was  a  flash  of  pleasure  across  her 
face;  she  answered  shortly  and  decidedly,  "Yes,"  then 
snatched  her  arm  away  from  him,  and  passed"  down  stairs. 

Miss  Assher  was  this  morning  busy  winding  silks,  being 
bent  on  emulating  Lady  Cheverel's  embroidery,  and  Lady 
Assher  chose  the  passive  amusement  of  holding  the  skeins. 
Lady  Cheverel  had  now  all  her  working  apparatus  about  her, 
and  Caterina,  thinking  she  was  not  wanted,  went  away  and 
sat  down  to  the  harpischord  in  the  sitting-room.  It  seemed 
as  if  playing  massive  chords — bringing  out  volumes  of  sound, 
would  be  the  easiest  way  of  passing  the  long  feverish  mo- 
ments before  twelve  o'clock.  Handel's  "  Messiah  "  stood  open 
on  the  desk,  at  the  chorus  *'  All  we,  like  sheep,"  and  Caterina 
threw  herself  at  once  into  the  impetuous  intricacies  of  that 
magnificent  fugue.  In  her  happiest  moments  she  could  nev- 
er have  played  it  so  well ;  for  now  all  the  passion  that  made 
her  misery  was  hurled  by  a  convulsive  effort  into  her  music, 
just  as  pain  gives  new  force  to  the  clutch  of  the  sinking 
wrestler,  and  as  terror  gives  far-sounding  intensity  to  the 
shriek  of  the  feeble. 

But  at  half  past  eleven  she  was  interrupted  by  Lady  Chev- 
erel, who  said, "  Tina,  go  down,  will  you,  and  hold  Miss  As- 
sher's  silks  for  her.  Lady  Assher  and  I  have  decided  on  hav- 
ing our  drive  before  luncheon." 

Caterina  went  down,  wondering  how  she  should  escape 
from  the  drawing-room  in  time  to  be  in  the  Rookery  at 
twelve.  Nothing  should  prevent  her  from  going;  nothing 
should  rob  her  of  this  one  precious  moment — perhaps  the  last 
— when  she  could  speak  out  the  thoughts  that  were  in  her. 
After  that,  she  would  be  passive  ;  she  would  bear  any  thing. 

But  she  had  scarcely  sat  down  with  a  skein  of  yellow  Bilk 
on  her  hands,  when  Miss  Assher  said  graciously, 

"  I  know  you  have  an  engagement  with  Captain  Wybrow 
this  morning.  You  must  not  let  me  detain  you  beyond  the 
time." 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  157 

"  So  he  has  been  talking  to  her  about  me,"  thought  Cate- 
rina.  Her  hands  began  to  tremble  as  she  held  the  skein. 

Miss  Assher  continued,  in  the  same  gracious  tone  :  "  It  is 
tedious  work  holding  these  skeins.  1  am  sure  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you." 

"No,  you  are  not  obliged  to  me,"  said  Caterina,  complete- 
ly mastered  by  her  irritation ;  "  I  have  only  done  it  because 
Lady  Cheverel  told  me." 

The  moment  was  come  when  Miss  Assher  could  no  longer 
'suppress  her  long  latent  desire  to  "  let  Miss  Sarti  know  the 
impropriety  of  her  conduct."  With  the  malicious  anger  that 
assumes  the  tone  of  compassion,  she  said, 

"Miss  Sarti,  I  am  really  KOITV  tor  ron  that  you  are  not 
able  to  contra ]  y^irfliftM*  bf  UP"  This  giving  way  to  un war- 
ran  tablefeelrngsislowering  you — it  is  indeed." 

"What  unwarrantable  feelings?"  said  Caterina,  letting 
her  hands  fall,  and  fixing  her  great  dark  eyes  steadily  on 
Miss  Assher. 

"It  is  quite  unnecessary  for  me  to  say  more.  You  must 
be  conscious  what  I  mean.  Only  summon  a  sense  of  duty  to 
your  aid.  You  are  paining  Captain  Wybrow  extremely  by 
your  want  of  self-control." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  I  pained  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  he  did.  He  is  very  much  hurt  that  you 
should  behave  to  me  as  if  you  had  a  sort  of  enmity  towards 
me.  He  would  like  you  to  make  a  friend  of  me.  I  assure 
you  we  both  feel  very  kindly  towards  you,  and  are  sorry  you 
should  cherish  such  feelings." 

"  He  is  very  good,"  said  Caterina,  bitterly.  "  What  feel- 
ings did  he  say  I  cherished  ?" 

This  bitter  tone  increased  Miss  Assher's  irritation.  There 
was  still  a  lurking  suspicio'n  in  her  mind,  though  she  would  not 
admit  it  to  herself,  that  Captain  Wybrow  had  told  her  a  false- 
hood about  his  conduct  and  feelings  towards  Caterina.  It 
was  this  suspicion,  more  even  than  the  anger  of  the  moment, 
which  urged  her  to  say  something  that  would  test  the  truth 
of  his  statement.  That  she  would  be  humiliating  Caterina 
at  the  same  time,  was  only  an  additional  temptation. 

"  These  are  things  I  do  not  like  to  talk  of,  Miss  Sarti.  I 
can  not  even  understand  how  a  woman  can  indulge  a  passion 
for  a  man  who  has  never  given  her  the  least  ground  for  it, 
as  Captain  Wybrow  assures  me  is  the  case." 

"He  told  you  that,  did  he?*'  said  Caterina,  in  clear  low 
tones,  her  lips  turning  white  as  she  rose  from  her  chair. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  he  did.  He  was  bound  to  tell  it  me  after  your 
strange  behavior." 


158  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Caterina  said  nothing,  but  turned  round  suddenly  and  left 
the  room. 

See  how  she  rushes  noiselessly,  like  a  pale  meteor,  along 
the  passages  and  up  the  gallery  stairs  !  Those  gleaming  eyes, 
those  bloodless  lips,  that  swift  silent  ti%ead,  make  her  look  like 
the  incarnation  of  a  fierce  purpose,  rather  than  a  woman. 
The  midday  sun  is  shining  on  the  armor  in  the  gallery,  mak- 
ing mimic  suns  on  bossed  sword-hilts  and  the  angles  of  pol- 
ished breastplates.  Yes,  there  are  sharp  weapons  in  the  gal- 
lery. There  is  a  dagger  in  that  cabinet ;  she  knows  it  Avell. 
And  as  a  dragon-fly  wheels  in  its  flight  to  alight  for  an  in- 
stant on  a  leaf,  she  darts  to  the  cabinet,  takes  out  the  dagger, 
and  thrusts  it  into  her  pocket.  In  three  minutes  more  she  is 
out,  in  hat  and  cloak,  on  the  gravel-walk,  hurrying  along  to- 
wards the  thick  shades  of  the  distant  Rookery.  She  threads 
the  windings  of  the  plantations,  not  feeling  the  golden  leaves 
that  rain  upon  her,  not  feeling  the  earth  beneath  her  feet. 
Her  hand  is  in  her  pocket,  clenching  the  handle  of  the  dag- 
ger, which  she  holds  half  out  of  its  sheath. 

She  has  reached  the  Rookery,  and  is  under  the  gloom  of 
the  interlacing  boughs.  Her  heart  throbs  as  if  it  would  burst 
her  bosom — as  if  every  next  beat  must  be  its  last.  Wait, 
wait,  O  heart ! — till  she  has  done  this  one  deed.  He  will  be 
there — he  will  be  before  her  in  a  moment.  He  will  come  to- 
wards her  with  that  false  smile,  thinking  she  does  not  know 
his  baseness — she  will  plunge  that  dagger  into  his  heart. 

Poor  child  !  poor  child  !  she  who  used  to  cry  to  have  the 
fish  put  back  into  the  water — who  never  willingly  killed  the 
smallest  living  thing — dreams  now,  in  the  madness  of  her 
passion,  that  she  can  kill  the  man  whose  very  voice  unnerves 
her. 

But  what  is  that  lying  among  the  dank  leaves  on  the  path 
three  yards  before  her. 

Good  God !  it  is  he — lying  motionless — his  hat  fallen  olf. 
He  is  ill,  then — he  has  fainted.  Her  hand  lets  go  the  dagger, 
and  she  rushes  to  wards  him.  His  eyes  are  fixed  ;  he  does  not 
see  her.  She  sinks  down  on  her  knees,  takes  the  dear  head 
in  her  arms,  and  kisses  the  cold  forehead. 

'  Anthony,  Anthony  !  speak  to  me — it  is  Tina — speak  to 
me  !  O  God,  he  is  dead  !" 


"  She  sinks  down  on  her  knees,  takes  the  dear  head  in  her  arms,  and  kisses 
the  cold  fonJuad."-  -PAGE  158. 


160  SCENES   Oi'   CLEBICAL   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  YES,  Maynard,"  said  Sir  Christopher,  chatting  with  Mr. 
Gilfil  in  the  library, "  it  really  is  a  remarkable  thing  that  I 
never  in  my  life  laid  a  plan,  and  failed  to  carry  it  out.  I  lay 
my  plans  well,  and  I  never  swerve  from  them — that's  it.  A 
strong  will  is  the  only  magic.  And  next  to  striking  out  one's 
plans,  the  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world  is  to  see  them  well 
accomplished.  This  year,  now,  will  be  the  happiest  of  my 
life,  all  but  the  year  '53,  when  I  came  into  possession  of  the 
Manor,  and  married  Henrietta.  The  last  touch  is  given  to 
the  old  house  ;  Anthony's  marriage — the  thing  I  had  nearest 
my  heart — is  settled  to  my  entire  satisfaction  ;  and  by-and- 
by  you  will  be  buying  a  little  wedding-ring  .for  Tina's  finger. 
Don't  shake  your  head  in  that  forlorn  way ; — when  I  make 
prophecies  they  generally  come  to  pass.  But  there's  a  quar- 
ter after  twelve  striking.  I  must  be  riding  to  the  High  Ash 
to  meet  Markham  about  felling  some  timber.  My  old  oaks 
will  have  to  groan  for  this  wedding,  but — " 

The  door  burst  open,  and  Caterina,  ghastly  and  panting, 
her  eyes  distended  with  terror,  rushed  in,  threw  her  arms 
round  Sir  Christopher's  neck,  and  gasping  out — "  Antho- 
ny...  the  Rookery  . . .  dead  ...  in  the  Rookery,"  fell  fainting 
on  the  floor. 

In  a  moment  Sir  Christopher  was  out  of  the  room,  and  Mr. 
Gilfil  was  bending  to  raise  Caterina  in  his  arms.  As  he  lift- 
ed her  from  the  ground  he  felt  something  hard  and  heavy  in 
her  pocket.  What  could  it  be  ?  The  weight  of  it  would  be 
enough  to  hurt  her  as  she  lay.  He  carried  her  to  the  sofa, 
put  his  hand  in  her  pocket,  and  drew  forth  the  dagger. 

Maynard  shuddered.  Did  she  mean  to  kill  herself,  then, 
or  ...  or  ...  a  horrible  suspicion  forced  itself  upon  him. 
"  Dead — in  the  Rookery."  He  hated  himself  for  the  thought 
that  prompted  him  to  draw  the  dagger  from  its  sheath.  No  ! 
there  was  no  trace  of  blood,  and  he  was  ready  to  kiss  the 
good  steel  for  its  innocence.  He  thrust  the  weapon  into  his 
own  pocket ;  he  would  restore  it  as  soon  as  possible  to  its 
well-known  place  in  the  gallery.  Yet,  why  had  Caterina 
taken  this  dagger  ?  What  was  it  that  had  happened  in  the 
Rookery  ?  Was  it  only  a  delirious  vision  of  hers  ? 

He  was  afraid  to  ring — afraid  to  summon  any  one  to  Gate- 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  161 

rina's  assistance.  What  might  she  not  say  when  she  awoke 
from  this  fainting  fit  ?  She  might  be  raving.  He  could  not 
leave  her,  and  yet  he  felt  as  if  he  were  guilty  for  not  follow- 
ing Sir  Christopher  to  see  what  Avas  the  truth.  It  took  but 
a  moment  to  think  and  feel  all  this,  but  that  moment  seemed 
such  a  long  agony  to  him  that  he  began  to  reproach  himself 
for  letting  it  pass  without  seeking  some  means  of  reviving 
Catcrina.  Happily  the  decanter  of  water  on  Sir  Christopher's 
table  was  untouched.  He  would  at  least  try  the  effect  of 
throwing  that  water  over  her.  She  might  revive  without  his 
needing  to  call  any  one  else. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Christopher  was  hurrying  at  his  utmost 
speed  towards  the  Rookery;  his  face,  so  lately  bright  and 
confident,  now  agitated  by  a  vague  dread.  The  deep  alarm- 
ed bark  of  Rupert,  who  ran  by  his  side,  had  struck  the  ear  of 
Mr.  Bates,  then  on  his  way  homeward,  as  something  unwonted, 
and,  hastening  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  he  met  the  Bar- 
onet just  as  he  was  approaching  the  entrance  of  the  Rookery. 
Sir  Christopher's  look  was  enough.  Mr.  Bates  said  nothing, 
but  hurried  along  by  his  side,  Avhile  Rupert  dashed  forward 
among  the  dead  leaves  with  his  nose  to  the  ground.  They 
had  scarcely  lost  sight  of  him  a  minute  when  a  change  in  the 
tone  of  his  bark  told  them  that  he  had  found  something,  and 
in  another  instant  he  was  leaping  back  over  one  of  the  large 
planted  mounds.  They  turned  aside  to  ascend  the  mound, 
Rupert  leading  them ;  the  tumultuous  cawing  of  the  rooks, 
the  very  rustling  of  the  leaves,  as  their  feet  plunged  among 
them,  falling  like  an  evil  omen  on  the  Baronet's  ear. 

They  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  mound,  and  had  be- 
gun to  descend.  Sir  Christopher  saw  something  purple  down 
on  the  path  below  among  the  yellow  leaves.  Rupert  was  al- 
ready beside  it,  but  Sir  Christopher  could  not  move  faster. 
A  tremor  had  taken  hold  of  the  firm  limbs.  Rupert  came 
back  and  licked  the  trembling  hand,  as  if  to  say  "  Courage  !" 
and  then  was  down  again  snuffing  the  body.  Yes,  it  was  a 
body  —  Anthony's  body.  There  was  the  white  hand  with 
its  diamond-ring  clutching  the  dark  leaves.  His  eyes  were 
half  open,  but  did  not  heed  the  gleam  of  sunlight  that  darted 
itself  directly  on  them  from  between  the  boughs. 

Still  he  might  only  have  fainted  ;  it  might  only  be  a  fit. 
Sir  Christopher  knelt  clown,  unfastened  the  cravat,  unfasten- 
ed the  waistcoat,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  heart.  It  might 
be  syncope  ;  it  might  not — it  could  not  be  death.  No !  that 
thought  must  be  kept  far  off. 

"  Go,  Bates,  get  help ;  we'll  carry  him  to  your  cottage. 
Send  some  one  to  the  house  to  tell  Mr.  Gilfil  and  Warren. 


162  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Bid  them  send  off  for  Doctor  Hart,  and  break  it  to  my  lady 
and  Miss  Assher  that  Anthony  is  ill." 

Mr.  Bates  hastened  away,  and  the  Baronet  was  left  alone 
kneeling  beside  the  body.  The  young  and  supple  limbs,  the 
rounded  cheeks,  the  delicate  ripe  lips,  the  smooth  white  hands, 
were  lying  cold  and  rigid ;  and  the  aged  face  was  bending 
over  them  in  silent  anguish  ;  the  aged  deep-veined  hands  were 
seeking  with  tremulous  inquiring  touches  for  some  symptom 
that  life  was  not  irrevocably  gone. 

Rupert  was  there  too,  waiting  and  watching  ;  licking  first 
the  dead  and  then  the  living  hands ;  then  running  off  on  Mr. 
Bates's  track  as  if  he  would  follow  and  hasten  his  return,  but 
in  a  moment  turning  back  again,  unable  to  quit  the  scene  of 
his  master's  sorrow. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IT  is  a  wonderful  moment,  the  first  time  we  stand  by  one 
who  has  fainted,  and  witness  the  fresh  birth  of  consciousness 
spreading  itself  over  the  blank  features,  like  the  rising  sun- 
light on  the  alpine  summits  that  lay  ghastly  and  dead  under 
the  leaden  twilight.  A  slight  shudder,  and  the  frost-bound 
eyes  recover  their  liquid  light ;  for  an  instant  they  show  the 
inward  semi-consciousness  of  an  infant's ;  then,  with  a  little 
start,  they  open  wider  and  begin  to  look ;  the  present  is  vis- 
ible, but  only  as  a  strange  writing,  and  the  interpreter  Mem- 
ory is  not  yet  there. 

Mr.  Gilfil  felt  a  trembling  joy  as  this  change  passed  over 
Caterina's  face.  He  bent  over  her,  rubbing  her  chill  hands, 
and  looking  at  her  with  tender  pity  as  her  dark  eyes  opened 
on  him  wonderingly.  He  thought  there  might  be  some  wine 
in  the  dining-room  close  by.  He  left  the  room,  and  Cateri- 
na's eyes  turned  towards  the  window — towards  Sir  Christo- 
pher's chair.  There  was  the  link  at  which  the  chain  of 
consciousness  had  snapped,  and  the  events  of  the  morning 
were  beginning  to  recur  dimly  like  a  half-remembered  dream, 
when  Maynard  .returned  with  some  wine.  He  raised  her,  and 
she  drank  it ;  but  still  she  was  silent,  seeming  lost  in  the  at- 
tempt to  recover  the  past,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Mr. 
Warren  appeared  with  looks  that  announced  terrible  tidings. 
Mr.  Gilfil,  dreading  lest  he  should  tell  them  in  Caterina's 
presence,  hurried  towards  him  with  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and 
drew  him  away  into  the  dining-room  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  passage. 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  163 

Caterina,  revived  by  the  stimulant,  was  now  recovering 
the  full  consciousness  of  the  scene  in  the  Rookery.  Anthony 
was  lying  there  dead ;  she  had  left  him  to  tell  Sir  Christo- 
pher ;  she  must  go  and  see  what  they  were  doing  with  him ; 
perhaps  he  was  not  really  dead — only  in  a  trance ;  people  did 
fall  into  trances  sometimes.  While  Mr.  Gilfil  was  telling 
Warren  how  it  would  be  best  to  break  the  news  to  Lady 
Cheverel  and  Miss  Assher,  anxious  himself  to  return  to  Cat- 
erina, the  poor  child  had  made  her  way  feebly  to  the  great 
entrance-door,  which  stood  open.  Her  strength  increased  as 
she  moved  and  breathed  the  fresh  air,  and  with  every  in- 
crease of  strength  came  increased  vividness  of  emotion,  in- 
creased yearning  to  be  where  her  thought  was — in  the  Rook- 
ery with  Anthony.  She  walked  more  and  more  swiftly,  and 
at  last,  gathering  the  artificial  strength  of  passionate  excite- 
ment, began  to  run. 

But  now  she  heard  the  tread  of  heavy  steps,  and  under 
the  yellow  shade  near  the  wooden  bridge  she  saw  men  slow- 
ly carrying  something.  Soon  she  was  face  to  face  with  them. 
Anthony  was  no  longer  in  the  Rookery  :  they  were  carrying 
him  stretched  on  a  door,  and  there  behind  him  was  Sir  Chris- 
topher, with  the  firmly-set  mouth,  the  deathly  paleness,  and 
the  concentrated  expression  of  suffering  in  the  eye,  which 
mark  the  suppressed  grief  of  the  strong  man.  The  sight  of 
this  'face,  on  which  Caterina  had  never  before  beheld  the 
signs  of  anguish,  caused  a  rush  of  new  feeling  which  for  the 
moment  submerged  all  the  rest.  She  went  gently  up  to  him, 
put  her  little  hand  in  his,  and  walked  in  silence  by  his  side. 
Sir  Christopher  could  not  tell  her  to  leave  him,  and  so  she 
went  on  with  that  sad  procession  to  Mr.  Bates's  cottage  in 
the  Mosslands,  and  sat  there  in  silence,  waiting  and  watching 
to  know  if  Anthony  were  really  dead. 

She  had  not  yet  missed  the  dagger  from  her  pocket ;  site 
had  not  yet  even  thought  of  it.  At  the  sight  of  Anthony  lying 
dead,  her  nature  had  rebounded  from  its  new  bias- of  resent- 
ment and  hatred  to  the  old  sweet  habit  of  love.  The  earliest 
and  the  longest  has  still  the  mastery  over  us;  and  the  only 
past  that  linked  itself  with  those  glazed  unconscious  eyes, 
was  the  past  when  they  beamed  on  her  with  tenderness. 
She  forgot  the  interval  of  wrong  and  jealousy  and  hatred — 
all  his  cruelty,  and  all  her  thoughts  of  revenge — as  the  exile 
forgets  the  stormy  passage  that  lay  between  home  and  hap- 
piness and  the  dreary  land  in  which  he  finds  himself  deso- 
late. 


164  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BEFORE  night  all  hope  was  gone.  Dr.  Hart  had  said  it 
was  death ;  Anthony's  body  had  been  carried  to  the  house, 
and  every  one  there  knew  the  calamity  that  had  fallen  on 
them. 

Caterina  had  been  questioned  by  Dr.  Hart,  and  had  an- 
swered briefly  that  she  found  Anthony  lying  in  the  Rookery. 
That  she  should  have  been  walking  there  just  at  that  time  was 
not  a  coincidence  to  raise  conjectures  in  any  one  besides  Mr. 
Gilfil.  Except  in  answering  this  question,  sne  had  not  broken 
her  silence.  She  sat  mute  in  a  corner  of  the  gardener's  kitch- 
en, shaking  her  head  when  Maynard  entreated  her  to  return 
with  him,  and  apparently  unable  to  think  of  any  thing  but 
the  possibility  that  Anthony  might  revive,  until  she  saw 
them  carrying  away  the  body  to  the  house.  Then  she  fol- 
lowed by  Sir  Christopher's  side  again,  so  quietly,  that  even 
Dr.  Hart  did  not  object  to  her  presence. 

It  was  decided  to  lay  the  body  in  the  library  until  after 
the  coroner's  inquest  to-morrow;  and  when  Caterina  saw  the 
door  finally  closed,  she  turned  up  the  gallery  stairs  on  her  way 
to  her  own  room,  the  place  where  she  felt  at  home  with  her 
sorrows.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  in  the  gallery 
since  that  terrible  moment  in  the  morning,  and  now  the  spot 
and  the  objects  around  began  to  reawaken  her  half-stunncd 
memory.  The  armor  was  no  longer  glittering  in  the  sun- 
light, but  there  it  hung  dead  and  sombre  above  the  cabinet 
from  which  she  had  taken  the  dagger.  Yes !  now  it  all  came 
back  to  her — all  the  wretchedness  and  all  the  sin.  But  where 
was  the  dagger  now  ?  She  felt  in  her  pocket ;  it  was  not  there. 
Could  it  have  been  her  fancy — all  that  about  the  dagger? 
She  looked  in  the  cabinet ;  it  was  not  there.  Alas  !  no ;  it 
could  not  have  been  her  fancy,  and  she  was  guilty  of  that 
wickedness.  But  where  could  the  dagger  be  now?  Could 
it  have  fallen  out  of  her  pocket  ?  She  heard  steps  ascending 
the  stairs,  and  hurried  on  to  her  room,  where,  kneeling  by  the 
bed,  and  burying  her  face  to  shut  out  the  hateful  light,  she 
tried  to  recall  every  feeling  and  incident  of  the  morning. 

It  all  came  back ;  every  thing  Anthony  had  done,  and  every 
thing  she  had  felt  for  the  last  month — for  many  months — ever 
since  that  June  evening  when  he  had  last  spoken  to  her  in  the 
gallery.  She  looked  back  on  her  storms  of  passion,  her  jeal- 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  135 

onsy  and  hatred  of  Miss  Assher,  her  thoughts  of  revenge  on 
Anthony.  Oh  how  wicked  she  had  been !  It  was  she  who 
had  been  sinning ;  it  was  she  who  had  driven  him  to  do  and 
say  those  things  that  had  made  her  so  angry.  And  if  he  had 
wronged  her,  what  had  she  been  on  the  verge  of  doing  to  him  ? 
She  was  too  wicked  ever  to  be  pardoned.  She  would  like  to 
confess  how  wicked  she  had  been,  that  they  might  punish  her ; 
she  would  like  to  humble  herself  to  the  dust  before  every  one 
— before  Miss  Assher  even.  Sir  Christopher  would  send  her 
away — would  never  see  her  again,  if  he  knew  all ;  and  she 
would  be  happier  to  be  punished  and  frowned  on,  than  to  be 
treated  tenderly  while  she  had  that  guilty  secret  in  her  breast. 
But  then,  if  Sir  Christopher  were  to  know  all,  it  would  add  to 
his  sorrow,  and  make  him  more  wretched  than  ever.  No ! 
she  could  not  confess  it — she  should  have  to  tell  about  An- 
thony. But  she  could  not  stay  at  the  Manor;  she  must  go 
away ;  she  could  not  bear  Sir  Christopher's  eye,  could  not  bear 
the  sight  of  all  these  things  that  reminded  her  of  Anthony  and 
of  her  sin.  Perhaps  she  should  die  soon  :  she  felt  very  fee- 
ble ;  there  could  not  be  much  life  in  her.  She  Avould  go  away 
and  live  humbly,  and  pray  to  God  to  pardon  her,  and  let  her 
die. 

The  poor  child  never  thought  of  suicide.  No  sooner  was 
the  storm  of  anger  passed  than  the  tenderness  and  timidity 
of  her  nature  returned,  and  she  could  do  nothing  but  love  and 
mourn.  Her  inexperience  prevented  her  from  imagining  the 
consequences  of  her  disappearance  from  the  Manor ;  she  fore- 
saw  none  of  the  terrible  details  of  alarm  and  distress  and 
search  that  must  ensue.  "  They  will  think  I  am  dead,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "and  by-and-by  they  will  forget  me,  and  May- 
nard  will  get  happy  again,  and  love  some  one  else." 

She  was  roused  from  her  absorption  by  a  knock  at  the 
door.  Mrs.  Bellamy  was  there.  She  had  come  by  Mr.  GilnTs 
request  to  see  how  Miss  Sarti  was,  and  to  bring  her  some  food 
and  wine. 

"  You  look  sadly,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  housekeeper, "  an' 
you're  all  of  a  quake  wi  cold.  Get  you  to  bed,  now  do.  Mar- 
tha shall  come  an'  warm  it,  an'  light  your  fire.  See  now,  here's 
some  nice  arrowroot,  wi'  a  drop  o'  wine  in  it.  Take  that,  an' 
it'll  warm  you.  I  must  go  down  again,  for  I  can't  awhile  to 
stay.  There's  so  many  things  to  see  to ;  an'  Miss  Assher's  in 
hysterics  constant,  an'  her  maid's  ill  i'  bed — a  poor  creachy 
thing — an'  Mrs.  Sharp's  wanted  every  minute.  But  I'll  send 
Martha  up,  an'  do  you  get  ready  to  go  to  bed,  there's  a  dear 
child,  an'  take  care  o'  yourself." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  mammy,"  said  Tina,  kissing  the  little  old 


166  SCENES    OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

woman's  wrinkled  cheek ;  "  I  shall  eat  the  arrowroot,  and  don't 
trouble  about  me  any  more  to-night.  I  shall  do  very  well 
when  Martha  has  lighted  my  fire.  Tell  Mr.  Gilfil  I'm  better. 
I  shall  go  to  bed  by-and-by,  so  don't  you  come  up  again,  be- 
cause you  may  only  disturb  me." 

"  W  ell,  well,  take  care  o'  yourself,  there's  a  good  child,  an' 
God  send  you  may  sleep." 

Caterina  took  the  arrowroot  quite  eagerly,  while  Martha 
was  lighting  her  fire.  She  wanted  to  get  strength  for  her 
1  journey,  and  she  kept  the  plate  of  biscuits  by  her  that  she 
might  put  some  in  her  pocket.  Her  whole  mind  was  now 
bent  on  going  away  from  the  Manor,  and  she  was  thinking 
of  all  the  ways  and  means  her  little  life's  experience  could 
suggest. 

It  was  dusk  now ;  she  must  wait  till  early  dawn,  for  she 
was  too  timid  to  go  away  in  the  dark,  but  she  must  make  her 
escape  before  any  one  was  up  in  the  house.  There  would  be 
people  watching  Anthony  in  the  library,  but  she  could  make 
her  way  out  of  a  small  door  leading  into  the  garden,  against 
the  drawing-room  on  the  other  side  of  the  house. 

She  laid  her  cloak,  bonnet,  and  veil  ready  ;  then  she  light- 
ed a  candle,  opened  her  desk,  and  took  out  the  broken  por- 
trait wrapped  in  paper.  She  folded  it  again  in  two  little 
notes  of  Anthony's,  written  in  pencil,  and  placed  it  in  her 
bosom.  There  was  the  little  china  box,  too — Dorcas's  pres- 
ent, the  pearl  ear-rings,  and  a  silk  puree,  with  fifteen  seven- 
shilling  pieces  in  it,  the  presents  Sir  Christopher  had  made 
her  on  her  birthday,  ever  since  she  had  been  at  the  Manor. 
Should  she  take  the  ear-rings  and  the  seven-shilling  pieces? 
She  could  not  bear  to  part  with  them ;  it  seemed  as  if  they  had 
some  of  Sir  Christopher's  love  in  them.  She  would  like  them 
to  be  buried  with  her.  She  fastened  the  little  round  ear-rings 
in  her  ears,  and  put  the  purse  with  Dorcas's  box  in  her  pock- 
et. She  had  another  purse  there,  and  she  took  it  out  to  count 
her  money,for  she  would  never  spend  her  seven-shilling  pieces. 
She  had  a  guinea  and  eight  shillings  ;  that  would  be  plenty. 

So  now  she  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  morning,  afraid  to 
lay  herself  on  the  bed  Jest  she  should  sleep  too  long.  If  she 
could  but  see  Anthony  once  more  and  kiss  his  cold  forehead  I 
But  that  could  not  be.  She  did  not  deserve  it.  She  must 
go  away  from  him,  away  from  Sir  Christopher,  and  Lady 
Cheverel,  and  Maynard>and  every  body  who  had  been  kind 
to  hers  and  thought  her  good  while  bha  was  so  wicked. 


MB.  GILFJL'S  LOVE-STORY.  167 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

SOME  of  Mrs.  Sharp's  earliest  thoughts,  the  next  morning, 
were  given  to  Caterina,  whom  she  had  not  been  able  to  visit 
the  evening  before,  and  whom,  from  a  nearly  equal  mixture 
of  affection  and  self-importance,  she  did  not  at  all  like  resign- 
ing to  Mrs.  Bellamy's  care.  At  half  past  eight  o'clock  she 
went  up  to  Tina's  room,  bent  on  benevolent  dictation  as 
to  doses  and  diet  and  lying  in  bed.  But  on  opening  the 
door  she  found  the  bed  smooth  and  empty.  Evidently  it 
had  not  been  slept  in.  What  could  this  mean  ?  Had  she 
sat  up  all  night,  and  was  she  gone  out  to  walk  ?  The  poor 
thing's  head  might  be  touched  by  what  had  happened  yester- 
day ;  it  wds  such  a  shock — finding  Captain  Wybrow  in  that 
way ;  she  was  perhaps  gone  out  of  her  mind.  Mrs.  Sharp 
looked  anxiously  in  the  place  where  Tina  kept  her  hat  and 
cloak ;  they  were  not  there,  so  that  she  had  had  at  least  the 
presence  of  mind  to  put  them  on.  Still  the  good  woman  felt 
greatly  alarmed,  and  hastened  away  to  tell  Mr.  Gilfil,  who, 
she  knew,  was  in  his  study. 

"  Mr.  Gilfil,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  had  closed  the  door 
behind  her,  "  my  mind  misgives  me  dreadful  about  Miss 
Sarti." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  poor  Maynard,  with  a  horrible  fear 
that  Caterina  had  betrayed  something  about  the  dagger. 

"She's  not  in  her  room,  an' her  bed's  not  been  slept  in  this 
night,  an'  her  hat  an'  cloak's  gone." 

For  a  minute  or  two  Mr.  Gilfil  was  unable  to  speak.  He 
felt  sure  the  worst  had  come :  Caterina  had  destroyed  her- 
self. The  strong  man  suddenly  looked  so  ill  and  helpless 
that  Mrs.  Sharp  began  to  be  frightened  at  the  effect  of  her 
abruptness. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I'm  grieved  to  my  heart  to  shock  you  so  ;  but  I 
didn't  know  who  else  to  go  to." 

"  No,  no,  you  were  quite  right." 

He  gathered  some  strength  from  his  very  despair.  It  was 
all  over,  and  he  had  nothing  now  to  do  but  to  suffer  and  to 
help  the  suffering.  He  went  on  in  a  firmer  voice : 

"  Be  sure  not  to  breathe  a  word  about  it  to  any  one.  We 
must  not  alarm  Lady  Cheverel  and  Sir  Christopher.  Miss 
Sarti  may  be  only  walking  in  the  garden.  She  was  terribly 
excited  by  what  she  saw  yesterday,  and  perhaps  was  unable 


168  SCENES    OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

to  lie  down  from  restlessness.  Just  go  quietly  through  the 
empty  rooms,  and  see  whether  she  is  in  the  house.  I  will  go 
and  look  for  her  in  the  grounds." 

He  went  down,  and,  to  avoid  giving  any  alarm  in  the  house, 
walked  at  once  towards  the  Mosslands  in  search  of  Mr.  Bates, 
whom  he  met  returning  from  his  breakfast.  To  the  garden- 
er he  confided  his  fear  about  Caterina,  assigning  as  a  reason 
for  this  fear  the  probability  that  the  shock  she  had  undergone 
yesterday  had  unhinged  her  mind,  and  begging  him  to  send 
men  in  search  of  her  through  the  gardens  and  park,  and  in- 
quire if  she  had  been  seen  at  the  lodges;  and  if  she  were  not 
found  or  heard  of  in  this  way,  to  lose  no  time  in  dragging 
the  waters  round  the  Manor. 

"  God  forbid  it  should  be  so,  Bates,  but  we  shall  be  the 
easier  for  having  searched  everywhere." 

"  Troost  to  mae,  troost  to  mae,  Mr.  Gilfil.  Eh  !  but  I'd 
ha'  worked  for  day-wage  all  the  rest  o'  my  life,  rether  than 
any  thin'  should  ha'  happened  to  her." 

The  good  gardener,  in  deep  distress,  strode  away  to  the 
stables  that  he  might  send  the  grooms  on  horseback  through 
the  park. 

Mr.  Gilfil's  next  thought  was  to  search  the  Rookery  ;  she 
might  be  haunting  the  scene  of  Captain  Wybrow's  death. 
He  went  hastily  over  every  mound,  looked  round  every  large 
tree,  and  followed  every  winding  of  the  walks.  In  reality 
he  had  little  hope  of  finding  her  there ;  but  the  bare  possi- 
bility fenced  off  for  a  time  the  fatal  conviction  that  Cateri- 
na's  body  would  be  found  in  the  water.  When  the  Rookery 
had  been  searched  in  vain,  he  walked  fast  to  the  border  of 
the  little  stream  that  bounded  one  side  of  the  grounds.  The 
stream  was  almost  everywhere  hidden  among  trees,  and  there 
was  one  place  where  it  was  broader  and  deeper  than  else- 
where— she  would  be  more  likely  to  come  to  that  spot  than 
to  the  pool.  He  hurried  along  with  strained  eyes,  his  imagi- 
nation continually  creating  what  he  dreaded  to  see. 

There  is  something  white  behind  that  overhanging  bough. 
His  knees  tremble  under  him.  He  seems  to  eee  part  of  her  dress 
caught  on  a  branch,  and  her  dear  dead  face  upturned.  O  God, 
give  strength  to  thy  creature,  on  whom  thou  hast  laid  this 
great  agony  !  He  is  nearly  up  to  the  bough,  and  the  white  ob- 
ject is  moving.  It  is  a  waterfowl,  that  spreads  its  wings  and 
flies  away  screaming.  He  hardly  knows  whether  it  is  a  relief 
or  a  disappointment  that  she  is  not  there.  The  conviction 
that  she  is  dead  presses  its  cold  weight  upon  him  none  the 
lees  heavily. 

As  he  reached  the  great  pool  in  front  of  the  Manor,  he  saw 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  169 

Mr.  Bates,  with  a  group  of  men  already  there,  preparing  for 
the  dreadful  search  which  could  only  displace  his  vague  despair 
by  a  definite  horror  ;  for  the  gardener,  in  his  restless  anxiety, 
had  been  unable  to  defer  this  until  other  means  of  search 
had  proved  vain.  The  pool  was  not  now  laughing  with 
sparkles  among  the  water-lilies.  It  looked  black  and  cruel 
under  the  sombre  sky,  as  if  its  cold  depths  held  relentlessly 
all  the  murdered  hope  and  joy  of  Maynard  Gilfil's  life. 

Thoughts  of  the  sad  consequences  for  others  as  well  as 
himself  were  crowding  on  his  mind.  The  blinds  and  shut- 
ters were  all  closed  in  front  of  the  Manor,  and  it  was  not 
likely  that  Sir  Christopher  would  be  aware  of  any  thing  that 
was  passing  outside ;  but  Mr.  Gilfil  felt  that  Caterina's  dis- 
appearance could  not  long  be  concealed  from  him.  The  coro- 
ner's inquest  would  be  held  shortly ;  she  would  be  inquired 
for,  and  then  it  would  be  inevitable  that  the  Baronet  should 
know  all. 


CHAPTER  XVItt 

AT  twelve  o'clock,  when  all  search  and  inquiry  had  been 
in  vain,  and  the  coroner  was  expected  every  moment,  Mr. 
Gilfil  could  no  longer  defer  the  hard  duty  of  revealing  this 
fresh  calamity  to  Sir  Christopher,  who  must  otherwise  have 
it  discovered  to  him  abruptly. 

The  Baronet  was  seated  in  his  dressing-room,  where  the 
dark  window-curtains  where  drawn  so  as  to  admit  only  a 
sombre  light.  It  was  the  first  time  Mr.  Gilfil  had  had  an  in- 
terview with  him  this  morning,  and  he  was  struck  to  see  how 
a  single  day  and  night  of  grief  had  aged  the  fine  old  man. 
The  lines  in  his  brow  and  about  his  mouth  were  deepened ; 
his  complexion  looked  dull  and  withered ;  there  was  a  swol- 
len ridge  under  his  eyes ;  and  the  eyes  themselves,  which 
used  to  cast  so  keen  a  glance  on  the  present,  had  the  vacant 
expression  which  tells  that  vision  is  no  longer  a  sense,  but  a 
memory. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Maynard,  who  pressed  it,  and  sat 
do  war  beside  him  in  silence.  Sir  Christopher's  heart  began 
to  swell  at  this  unspoken  sympathy ;  the  tears  would  rise, 
would  roll  in  great  drops  down  his  cheeks.  The  first  tears 
he  had  shed  since  boyhood  wei'e  for  Anthony. 

Maynard  felt  as  if  his  tongue  were  glued  to  the  roof  of 
his  mouth.  He  could  not  speak  first :  he  must  wait  until 

8 


170  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE, 

Sir  Christopher  said  something  which  might  lead  on  to  the 
cruel  words  that  must  be  spoken. 

At  last  the  Baronet  mastered  himself  enough  to  say,  "  I'm 
very  weak,  Maynard — God  help  me  !  I  didn't  think  any 
thing  would  unman  me  in  this  way ;  but  I'd  built  every  thing 
on  that  lad.  Perhaps  I've  been  wrong  in  not  forgiving  my 
sister.  She  lost  one  of  her  sons  a  little  while  ago.  I've 
been  too  proud  and  obstinate." 

"  We  can  hardly  learn  humility  and  tenderness  enough 
except  by  suffering,"  said  Maynard ;  "  and  God  sees  we  are 
in  need  of  suffering,  for  it  is  falling  more  and  more  heavily 
on  us.  We  have  a  new  trouble  this  morning." 

"  Tina  ?"  said  Sir  Christopher,  looking  up  anxiously — "  is 
Tina  ill  ?" 

"I  am  in  dreadful  uncertainty  about  her.  She  was  very 
much  agitated  yesterday — and  with  her  delicate  health — I  am 
afraid  to  think  what  turn  the  agitation  may  have  taken." 

"  Is  she  delirious,  poor  dear  little  one  !" 

"  God  only  knows  how  she  is.  We  are  unable  to  find  her. 
When  Mrs.  Sharp  went  up  to  her  room  this  morning  it  was 
empty.  She  had  not  been  in  bed.  Her  hat  and  cloak  were 
gone.  I  have  had  search  made  for  her  everywhere — in  the 
house  and  garden,  in  the  park,  and — in  the  water.  No  one 
has  seen  her  since  Martha  went  up  to  light  her  fire  at  seven 
o'clock  in  the  evening." 

While  Mr.  Gilfil  was  speaking,  Sir  Christopher's  eyes,  which 
were  eagerly  turned  on  him,  recovered  some  of  their  old  keen- 
ness, and  some  sudden  painful  emotion,  as  at  a  new  thought, 
flitted  rapidly  across  his  already  agitated  face,  like  the  shad- 
ow of  a  dark  cloud  over  the  waves.  When  the  pause  came, 
he  laid  his  hand  on  Mr.  Gilfil's  arm,  and  said  in  a  lower  voice. 

"  Maynard,  did  that  poor  thing  love  Anthony  ?" 

"  She  did." 

Maynard  hesitated  after  these  words,  straggling  between 
his  reluctance  to  inflict  a  yet  deeper  wound  on  Sir  Christo- 
pher, and  his  determination  that  no  injustice  should  be  done 
to  Caterina.  Sir  Christopher's  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  him 
in  solemn  inquiry,  and  his  own  sunk  towards  the  ground, 
while  he  tried  to  find  the  words  that  would  tell  the  truth 
least  cruelly. 

"  You  must  not  have  any  wrong  thoughts  about  Tina,"  he 
said,  at  length.  "  I  must  tell  you  now,  for  her  sake,  what 
nothing  but  this  should  ever  have  caused  to  pass  my  lips. 
Captain  Wybrow  won  her  affections  by  attentions  which,  in 
his  position,  he  was  bound  not  to  show  her.  Before  his  mar- 
riage was  talked  of,  he  had  behaved  to  her  like  a  lover." 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  171 

Sir  Christopher  relaxed  his  hold  of  Maynard's  arm,  and 
looked  away  from  him.  He  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  ev- 
dently  attempting  t^  master  himself,  so  as  to  be  able  to  speak 
calmly. 

"I  must  see  Henrietta  immediately,"  he  said  at  last,  with 
something  of  his  old  sharp  decision  ;  "  she  must  know  all ;  but 
we  must  keep  it  from  every  one  else  as  far  as  possible.  My 
dear  boy,"  he  continued  in  a  kinder  tone,  "  the  heaviest  bur- 
then has  fallen  on  you.  But  we  may  find  her  yet ;  we  must 
not  despair :  there  has  not  been  time  enough  for  us  to  be  cer- 
tain. Poor  dear  little  one  !  God  help  me  !  I  thought  I  saw 
every  thing,  and  was  stone-blind  all  the  while." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  sad  slow  week  was  gone  by  at  last.  At  the  coroner's 
inquest  a  verdict  of  sudden  death  had  been  pronounced.  Dr. 
Hai*t,  acquainted  with  Captain  Wybrow's  previous  state  of 
health,  had  given  his  opinion  that  death  had  been  imminent 
from  long-established  disease  of  the  heart,  though  it  had  prob- 
ably been  accelerated  by  some  unusual  emotion.  Miss  As- 
sher  was  the  only  person  who  positively  knew  the  motive 
that  led  Captain  Wybrow  to  the  Rookery ;  but  she  had  not 
mentioned  Caterina's  name,  and  all  painful"  details  or  inquiries 
were  studiously  kept  from  her.  Mr.  Gilfil  and  Sir  Christopher, 
however,  knew  enough  to  conjecture  that  the  fatal  agitation 
was  due  to  an  appointed  meeting  with  Caterina. 

All  search  and  inquiry  after  her  had  been  fruitless,  and  were 
the  more  likely  to  be  so  because  they  were  carried  on  under 
the  prepossession  that  she  had  committed  suicide.  No  one 
noticed  the  absence  of  the  trifles  she  had  taken  from  her  desk ; 
no  one  knew  of  the  likeness,  or  that  she  had  hoarded  her  sev- 
en-shilling pieces,  and  it  was  not  remarkable  that  she  should 
have  happened  to  be  wearing  the  pearl  earrings.  She  had 
left  the  house,  they  thought,  taking  nothing  with  her ;  it 
seemed  impossible  she  could  have  gone  far ;  and  she  must 
have  been  in  a  state  of  mental  excitement  that  made  it  too 
probable  she  had  only  gone  to  seek  relief  in  death.  The  same 
places  within  three  or  four  miles  of  the  Manor  were  searched 
again  and  again — every  pond,  every  ditch  in  the  neighbor- 
hood was  examined. 

Sometimes  Maynard  thought  that  death  might  have  come 
on  unsought,  from  cold  and  exhaustion  ;  and  not  a  day  passed 


172  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

but  he  wandered  through  the  neighboring  woods,  turning  up 
the  heaps  of  dead  leaves,  as  if  it  were  possible  her  dear  body 
could  be  hidden  there.  Then  another  horrible  thought  r* 
curred,  and  before  each  night  came  he  had  been  again  through 
all  the  uninhabited  rooms  of  the  house,  to  satisfy  himself 
once  more  that  she  was  not  hidden  behind  some  cabinet,  or 
door,  or  curtain — that  he  should  not  find  her  there  with  mad 
ness  in  her  eyes,  looking  and  looking,  and  yet  not  seeing  him. 

But  at  last  those  five  long  days  and  nights  were  at  an 
end,  the  funeral  was  over,  and  the  carriages  were  returning 
through  the  park.  When  they  had  set  out,  a  heavy  rain  was 
falling ;  but  now  the  clouds  were  breaking  up,  and  a  gleam 
of  sunshine  was  sparkling  among  the  dripping  boughs  under 
which  they  were  passing.  This  gleam  fell  upon  a  man  on 
horseback  who  was  jogging  slowly  along,  and  whom  Mr.  Gil- 
fil  recognized,  in  spite  of  diminished  rotundity,  as  Daniel 
Knott,  the  coachman  who  had  married  the  rosy-cheeked  Dor- 
cas ten  years  before. 

Every  new  incident  suggested  the  same  thought  to  Mr. 
Gilfil ;  and  his  eye  no  sooner  fell  on  Knott  than  he  said  to 
himself, "  Can  he  be  come  to  tell  us  any  thing  about  Cateri- 
na  ?"  Then  he  remembered  that  Caterina  had  been  very 
fond  of  Dorcas,  and  that  she  always  had  some  present  ready 
to  send  her  when  Knott  paid  an  occasional  visit  to  the  Man- 
or. Could  Tina  have  gone  to  Dorcas  ?  But  his  heart  sank 
again  as  he  thought,  very  likely  Knott  had  only  come  be- 
cause he  had  heard  of  Captain  Wybrow's  death,  and  wanted 
1o  know  how  his  old  master  had  borne  the  blow. 

As  soon  as  the  carriage  reached  the  house,  he  went  up  to 
his  study  and  walked  about  nervously,  longing,  but  afraid,  to 
go  down  and  speak  to  Knott,  lest  his  faint  hope  should  be 
dissipated.  Any  one  looking  at  that  face,  usually  so  full 'of 
calm  good-will,  would  have  seen  that  the  last  week's  suffering 
had  left  deep  traces.  By  day  he  had  been  riding  or  wander- 
ing incessantly,  either  searching  for  Caterina  himself,  or  di- 
recting inquiries  to  be  made  by  others.  By  night  he  had 
not  known  sleep — only  intermittent  dozing,  in  which  he 
seemed  to  be  finding  Caterina  dead,  and  woke  up  with  a  start 
from  this  unreal  agony  to  the  real  anguish  of  believing  that 
he  should  see  her  no  more.  The  clear  gray  eyes  looked  sunk- 
en and  restless,  the  full  careless  lips  had  a  strange  tension 
about  them,  and  the  brow,  formerly  so  smooth  and  open,  was 
contracted  as  if  with  pain.  He  had  not  lost  the  object  of  a 
few  months'  passion;  he  had  lost  the  being  who  was  bound 
up  with  his  power  of  loving,  as  the  brook  we  played  by  or 
the  flowers  we  gathered  in  childhood  are  bound  up-with  our 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  173 

Bense  of  beauty.  Love  meant  nothing  for  him  but  to  love 
Caterina.  For  years,  the  thought  of  her  had  been  present 
in  every  thing,  like  the  air  and  the  light ;  and  now  she  was 
gone,  it  seemed  as  if  all  pleasure  had  lost  its  vehicle :  the 
sky,  the  earth,  the  daily  ride,  the  daily  talk  might  be  there, 
but  the  loveliness  and  joy  that  were  in  them  had  gone  for- 
ever. 

Presently,  as  he  still  paced  backward  and  forward,  he 
fleard  steps  along  the  corridor,  and  there  was  a  knock  at  his 
door.  His  voice  trembled  as  he  said  "  Come  in,"  and  the  rush 
of  renewed  hope  was  hardly  distinguishable  from  pain  when 
he  saw  Warren  enter  with  Daniel  Knott  behind  him. 

"  Knott  is  come,  sir,  with  news  of  Miss  Sarti.  I  thought 
it  best  to  bring  him  to  you  first." 

Mr.  Gilfil  could  not  help  going  up  to  the  old  coachman 
and  wringing  his  hand  ;  but  he  was  unable  to  speak,  and  only 
motioned  to  him  to  take  a  chair,  while  Warren  left  the  room. 
He  hung  upon  Daniel's  moon-face,  and  listened  to  his  sma/l 
piping  voice,  with  the  same  solemn  yearning  expectation  witK 
which  he  would  have  given  ear  to  the  most  awful  messenger 
from  the  land  of  shades. 

"  It  war  Dorkis,  sir,  would  hev  me  come  ;  but  we  knowed 
nothin'  o'  what's  happened  at  the  Manor.  She's  frightened 
out  on  her  wits  about  Miss  Sarti,  an'  she  would  hev  me  sad- 
dle Blackbird  this  mornin,'  an'  leave  the  ploughin',  to  come 
an'  let  Sir  Christifer  an'  my  lady  know.  P'raps  you've  hear- 
ed,  sir,  we  don't  keep  the  Cross  Keys  at  Sloppeter  now ;  a 
uncle  o'  mine  died  three  'ear  ago,  an'  left  me  a  leggicy.  He 
was  bailiff  to  Squire  Ramble,  as  hed  them  there  big  farms  on 
his  hans ;  an'  so  we  took  a  little  farm  o'  forty  acres  or  theie- 
abouts,  becos  Doi-kis  didn't  like  the  public  when  she  got 
moithered  wi'  children.  As  pritty  a  place  as  iver  you  see, 
sir,  wi'  water  at  the  back  convenent  for  the  cattle." 

"  For  God's  sake,"  said  Maynard,  "  tell  me  what  it  is  about 
Miss  Sarti.  Don't  stay  to  tell  me  any  thing  else  now." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Knott,  rather  frightened  by  the  parson's 
vehemence,  "  she  come  four  house  i'  the  carrier's  cart  o' 
Wednesday,  when  it  was  welly  nine  o'clock  at  night ;  and 
Dovkis  run  out,  for  she  beared  the  cart  stop,  an'  Miss  Sarti 
throwed  her  arms  roun'  Dorkis's  neck  an'  says,  '  Tek  me  in, 
Dorkis,  tek  me  in,'  an'  went  oif  into  a  swoond,  like.  An' 
Dorkis  calls  out  to  me, — 'Dannel,'  she  calls — an'  I  run  out 
and  carried  the  young  miss  in,  an'  she  come  roun'  arter  a 
bit,  an'  opened  her  eyes,  and  Dorkis  got  her  to  drink  a  spoon- 
ful o'  rum-an'-water — we've  got  some  capital  rum  as  we 
brought  from  the  Cross  Keys,  and  Dorkis  won't  let  nobody 


174  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

drink  it.  She  says  she  keeps  it  for  sickness  ;  but  for  my  part, 
I  think  it's  a  pity  to  drink  good  rum  when  your  mouth's  out 
o'  taste  ;  you  may  jest  as  well  hev  doctor's  stuff.  However, 
Dorkis  got  her  to  bed,  an'  there  she's  lay  iver  sin',  stoopid 
like,  an'  niver  speaks,  an'  on'y  teks  little  bits  an'  sups  when 
Dorkis  coaxes  her.  An'  we  begun  to  be  frightened,  an' 
couldn't  think  what  had  made  her  come  away  from  the  Man- 
or, and  Dorkis  was  afeared  there  was  summat  wrong.  So 
this  mornin'  she  could  hold  no  longer,  an'  would  hev  no  nay 
but  I  must  come  and  see  ;  an'  so  I've  rode  twenty  mile  upo' 
Blackbird,  as  thinks  all  the  while  he's  a-ploughin',  an'  turns 
sharp  roun',  every  thirty  yards,  as  if  he  was  at  the  end  of  a 
furrow.  I've  hed  a  sore  time  wi'  him,  I  can  tell  you,  sir." 

"  God  bless  you,  Knott,  for  coming  !"  said  Mr.  Gilfil,  wring- 
ing the  old  coachman's  hand  again.  "Now  go  down  and 
have  something  and  rest  yourself.  You  will  stay  here  to- 
night, and  by-and-by  I  shall  come  to  you  to  learn  the  nearest 
way  to  your  house.  I  shall  get  ready  to  ride  there  immedi- 
ately, when  I  have  spoken  to  Sir  Christopher." 

In  an  hour  from  that  time  Mr.  Gilfil  was  galloping  on  a 
stout  mare  towards  the  little  muddy  village  of  Callam,  five 
miles  beyond  Sloppeter.  Once  more  he  saw  some  gladness 
in  the  afternoon  sunlight ;  once  more  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see 
the  hedgerow  trees  flying  past  him,  and  to  be  conscious  of  a 
"  good  seat "  while  his  black  Kitty  bounded  beneath  him, 
and  the  air  whistled  to  the  rhythm  of  her  pace.  Caterina 
was  not  dead ;  he  had  found  her ;  his  love  and  tenderness  and 
long-suffering  seemed  so  strong,  they  must  recall  her  to  life 
and  happiness.  After  that  week  of  despair,  the  rebound  was 
so  violent  that  it  carried  his  hopes  at  once  as  far  as  the  ut- 
most mark  they  had  ever  reached.  Caterina  would  come  to 
love  him  at  last ;  she  would  be  his.  They  had  been  carried 
through  all  that  dark  and  weary  way  that  she  might  know 
the  depth  of  his  love.  How  he  would  cherish  her — his  little 
bird  with  the  timid  bright  eye,  and  the  sweet  throat  that 
trembled  with  love  and  music !  She  would  nestle  against 
him,  and  the  poor  little  breast  which  had  been  so  ruffled  and 
bruised  should  be  safe  for  evermore.  In  the  love  of  a. brave 
and  faithful  man  there  is  always  a  strain  of  maternal  tender- 
ness ;  he  gives  out  again  those  beams  of  protecting  fondness 
which  were  shed  on  him  as  he  lay  on  his  mother's  kjee. 

It  was  twilight  as  he  entered  the  village  of  Callam,  and, 
asking  a  homeward-bound  laborer  the  way  to  Daniel  Knott's, 
learned  that  it  was  by  the  church,  which  showed  its  stumpy 
ivy-clad  spire  on  a  slight  elevation  of  ground  ;  a  useful  addi- 
tion to  the  means  of  identifying  that  desirable  homestead  af- 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STOKY.  175 

forded  by  Daniel's  description — "  the  prittiest  place  iver  you 
see  " — though  a  small  cow-yard  full  of  excellent  manure,  and 
leading  right  up  to  the  door,  without  any  frivolous  interrup- 
tion from  garden  or  railing,  might  perhaps  have  been  enough 
to  make  that  description  unmistakably  specific. 

Mr.  Gilfil  had  no  sooner  reached  the  gate  leading  into  the 
cow-yard,  than  he  was  descried  by  a  flaxen-haired  lad  of  nine, 
prematurely  invested  with  the  toga  virilis,  or  smock-frock, 
who  ran  forward  to  let  in  the  unusual  visitor.  In  a  moment 
Dorcas  was  at  the  door,  the  roses  on  her  cheeks  apparently 
all  the  redder  for  the  three  pair  of  cheeks  which  formed  a 
group  round  her,  and  for  the  very  fat  baby  who  stared  in  her 
arms,  and  sucked  a  long  crust  with  calm  relish; 

"  Is  it  Mr.  Gilfil,  sir  ?"  said  Dorcas,  courtesying  low  as  he 
made  his  way  through  the  damp  straw,  after  tying  up  his 
horse. 

"  Yes,  Dorcas  ;  I'm  grown  out  of  your  knowledge.  How 
is  Miss  Sarti  ?" 

"  Just  for  all  the  world  the  same,  sir,  as  I  suppose  Dan- 
nel's  told  you ;  for  I  reckon  you've  come  from  the  Manor, 
though  you're  come  uncommon  quick,  to  be  sure." 

"  Yes,  he  got  to  the  Manor  about  one  o'clock,  and  I  set  off 
as  soon  as  I  could.  She's  not  worse,  is  she?" 

"  No  change,  sir,  for  better  or  wuss.  Will  you  please  to 
wa.lk  in,  sir  ?  She  lies  there  takin'  no  notice  o'  nothin',  no 
more  nor  a  baby  as  is  on'y  a  week  old,  an'  looks  at  me  as 
blank  as  if  she  didn't  know  me.  Oh,  what  can  it  be,  Mr.  Gil- 
fil ?  How  come  she  to  leave  the  Manor  ?  How's  his  honor 
an'  my  lady  ?" 

"  In  great  trouble,  Dorcas.  Captain  Wybrow,  Sir  Chris- 
topher's nephew,  you  know,  has  died  suddenly.  Miss  Sarti 
found  him  lying  dead,  and  I  think  the  shock  has  affected  her 
mind." 

"  Eh,  dear !  that  fine  young  gentleman  as  was  to  be  th' 
heir,  as  Dannel  told  me  about.  I  remember  seein'  him  when 
he  was  a  little  un,  a-visitin'  at  the  Manor.  Well-a-day,  what 
a  grief  to  his  honor  and  my  lady.  But  that  poor  Miss  Tina 
— an'  she  found  him  a-lyin'  dead  ?  Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !" 

Dorcas  had  led  the  way  into  the  best  kitchen,  as  charm- 
ing a  room  as  best  kitchens  used  to  be  in  farmhouses  which 
had  no  parlors — the  fire  reflected  in  a  bright  row  of  pewter 
plates  and  dishes  ;  the  sand-scoured  deal  tables  so  clean  you 
longed  to  stroke  them ;  the  salt-coffer  in  one  chimney-corner, 
and  a  three-cornered  chair  in  the  other,  the  walls  behind 
handsomely  tapestried  with  flitches  of  bacon,  and  the  ceiling 
ornamented  with  pendent  hams. 


176  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Sit  ye  down,  sir — do,"  said  Dorcas,  moving  the  three-cor- 
nered  chair, "  an'  let  me  get  you  somethin'  after  your  long 
journey.  Here,  Becky,  come  an'  tek  the  baby." 

Becky,  a  red-armed  damsel,  emerged  from  the  adjoining 
back-kitchen,  and  possessed  herself  of  baby,  whose  feelings  or 
fat  made  him  conveniently  apathetic  under  the  transference. 

"  What'll  you  please  to  tek,  sir,  as  I  can  give  you  ?  I'll  get 
you  a  rasher  o'  bacon  i'  no  time,  an'  I've  got  some  tea,  or  be- 
like you'd  tek  a  glass  o'  rum-an'-water.  I  know  we've  got 
nothin'  as  you're  used  t'eat  and  drink ;  but  such  as  I  hev,  sir, 
I  shall  be  proud  to  give  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Dorcas ;  I  can't  eat  or  drink  any  thing.  I'm 
not  hungry  or  tired.  Let  us  talk  about  Tina.  Has  she  spoken 
at  all?" 

"  Niver  since  the  fust  words.  '  Dear  Dorkis,'  says  she, 
*  tek  me  in ;'  an'  then  went  off  into  a  faint,  an'  not  a  word  has 
she  spoken  since.  I  get  her  t'eat  little  bits  an'  sups  o'  things, 
but  she  teks  no  notice  o'  nothin'.  I've  took  up  Bessie  wi'  me 
now  an*  then" — here  Dorcas  lifted  to  her  lap  a  curly-headed 
little  girl  of  three,  who  was  twisting  a  corner  of  her  mother's 
apron,  and  opening  round  eyes  at  the  gentleman — "folks'll  tek 
notice  o'  children  sometimes  when  they  won't  o'  nothin'  else. 
An'  we  gathered  the  autumn  crocuses  out  o'  th'orchard,  and 
Bessie  carried  'em  up  in  her  hand,  an'  put  'em  on  the  bed.  I 
knowed  how  fond  Miss  Tina  was  o'  flowers  an'  them  things, 
when  she  was  a  little  un.  But  she  looked  at  Bessie  an'  the 
flowers  just  the  same  as  if  she  didn't  see  'em.  It  cuts  me  to 
th'heart  to  look  at  them  eyes  o'  hers ;  I  think  they're  bigger 
nor  iver,  an'  they  look  like  my  poor  baby's  as  died,  when  it 

§ot  so  thin — Oh  dear,  its  little  hands  you  could  see  thro'  'em. 
ut  I've  great  hopes  if  she  was  to  see  you,  sir,  as  come  from 
the  Manor,  it  might  bring  back  her  mind,  like." 

Maynard  had  that  hope  too,  but  he  felt  cold  mists  of  fear 
gathering  round  him  after  the  few  bright  warm  hours  of  joy- 
ful confidence  which  had  passed  since  he  first  heard  that 
Caterina  was  alive.  The  thought  would  urge  itself  upon  him 
that  her  mind  and  body  might  never  recover  the  strain  that 
had  been  put  upon  them — that  her  delicate  thread  of  life  had 
already  nearly  spun  itself  out. 

"Go  now,  Dorcas,  and  see  how  she  is,  but  don't  say  any 
thing  about  my  being  here.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for 
me  to  wait  till  daylight  before  I  see  her,  and  yet  it  would  be 
very  hard  to  pass  another  night  in  this  way." 

Dorcas  set  down  little  Bessie,  and  went  away.  The  three 
other  children,  including  young  Daniel  in  his  smock-frock, 
were  standing  opposite  to  Mr.  Gilfil,  watching  him  still  more 


MK.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  177 

shyly  now  they  were  without  their  mother's  countenance. 
He  drew  little  Bessie  towards  him,  and  set  her  on  his  knee. 
She  shook  her  yellow  curls  out  of  her  eyes,  and  looked  up  at 
him  as  she  said, 

"  Zoo  tome  to  tee  ze  yady  ?  Zoo  mek  her  peak  ?  What 
zoo  do  to  her  ?  Tiss  her  ?" 

"  Do  you  like  to  be  kissed,  Bessie  ?" 

"Det,"said  Bessie,  immediately  ducking  down  her  head 
very  low,  in  resistance  to  the  expected  rejoinder. 

"  We've  got  two  pups,"  said  young  Daniel,  emboldened  by 
observing  the  gentleman's  amenities  towards  Bessie.  "  Shall 
I  show  'em  yer?  One's  got  white  spots." 

"Yes, let  me  see  them." 

Daniel  ran  out,  and  presently  reappeared  with  two  blind 
puppies,  eagerly  followed  by  the  mother,  affectionate  though 
mongrel,  and  an  exciting  scene  was  beginning  when  Dorcas 
returned  and  said, 

"  There's  niver  any  difference  in  her  hardly.  I  think  you 
needn't  wait,  sir.  She  lies  very  still,  as  she  al'ys  does.  I've 
put  two  candles  i'  the  room,  so  as  she  may  see  you  well. 
You'll  please  t'  excuse  the  room,  sir,  an'  the  cap  as  she  has 
on ;  it's  one  o'  mine." 

Mr.  Gilfil  nodded  silently,  and  rose  to  follow  her  up  stairs. 
They  turned  in  at  the  first  door,  their  footsteps  making  little 
noise  on  the  plaster  floor.  The  red-checkered  linen  curtains 
were  drawn  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  Dorcas  had  placed 
the  candles  on  this  side  of  the  room,  so  that  the  light  might 
not  fall  oppressively  on  Caterina's  eyes.  When  she  had  open- 
ed the  door,  Dorcas  whispered,  "  I'd  better  leave  you,  sir,  I 
think?" 

Mr.  Gilfil  motioned  assent,  and  advanced  beyond  the  cur- 
tain. Caterina  lay  with  her  eyes  turned  the  other  way,  and 
seemed  unconscious  that  any  one  had  entered.  Her  eyes,  as 
Dorcas  had  said,  looked  larger  than  ever,  perhaps  because  her 
face  was  thinner  and  paler,  and  her  hair  quite  gathered  away 
under  one  of  Dorcas's  thick  caps.  The  small  hands,  too,  that 
lay  listlessly  on  the  outside  of  the  bed-clothes  were  thinner 
than  ever.  She  looked  younger  than  she  really  was,  and  any 
one  seeing  the  tiny  face  and  hands  for  the  first  time  might 
have  thought  they  belonged  to  a  little  girl  of  twelve,  who  was 
being  taken  away  from  coming  instead  of  past  sorrow. 

When  Mr.  Gilfil  advanced  and  stood  opposite  to  her,  the 
light  fell  full  upon  his  face.  A  slight  startled  expression  came 
over  Caterina's  eyes ;  she  looked  at  him  earnestly  for  a  few 
moments,  then  lifted  up  her  hand  as  if  to  beckon  him  to  stoop 
down  towards  her,  and  whispered,  "  Mavnard  !" 

8* 


178  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

He  seated  himself  on  the  bed,  and  stooped  down  towards 
her.  She  whispered  again — 

"Maynard,  did  you  see  the  dagger?" 
He  followed  his  first  impulse  in  answering  her,  and  it  was 
a  wise  one. 

"  Yes,"  he  whispered, "  I  found  it  in  your  pocket,  and  put 
it  back  again  in  the  cabinet." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  held  it  gently,  awaiting  what 
she  would  say  next.  His  heart  swelled  so  with  thankfulness 
that  she  had  recognized  him,  he  could  hardly  repress  a  sob. 
Gradually  her  eyes  became  softer  and  less  intense  in  their 
gaze.  The  tears  were  slowly  gathering,  and  presently  some 
large  hot  drops  rolled  down  her  cheek.  Then  the  flood-gates 
were  opened,  and  the  heart-easing  stream  gushed  forth ;  deep 
sobs  came;  and  for  nearly  an  hour  she  lay  without  speaking, 
while  the  heavy  icy  pressure  that  withheld  her  misery  from 
utterance  was  thus  melting  away.  How  precious  these  tears 
were  to  Maynard,  who  day  after  day  had  been  shuddering  at 
the  continually  recurring  image  of  Tina  with  the  dry,  scorch- 
ing stare  of  insanity ! 

By  degrees  the  sobs  subsided,  she  began  to  breathe  calm- 
ly, and  lay  quiet  with  her  eyes  shut.  Patiently  Maynard  sat, 
not  heeding  the  flight  of  the  hours,  not  heeding  the  old  clock 
that  ticked  loudly  on  the  landing.  But  when  it  was  nearly 
ten,  Dorcas,  impatiently  anxious  to  know  the  result  of  Mr. 
Gilfil's  appearance,  could  not  help  stepping  in  on  tiptoe. 
Without  moving,  he  whispered  in  her  ear  to  supply  him  with 
candles,  see  that  the  cow-boy  had  shaken  down  his  mare,  and 
go  to  bed — he  would  watch  with  Cateiina — a  great  change 
had  come  over  her. 

Before  long,  Tina's  lips  began  to  move.  "  Maynard,"  she 
whispered  again.  He  leaned  towards  her,  and  she  went  on. 

"  You  know  how  wicked  I  am,  then  ?  You  know  what  I 
meant  to  do  with  the  dagger?" 

"Did  you  mean  to  kill  yourself, Tina ?" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  then  was  silent  for  a  long 
while.  At  last,  looking  at  him  with  solemn  eyes,  she  whisper- 
ed, "  To  kill  him." 

"  Tina,  my  loved  one,  you  would  never  have  done  it.  God 
saw  your  whole  heart ;  He  knows  you  would  never  harm  a 
living  thing.  He  watches  over  His  children,  and  will  not  let 
them  do  things  they  would  pray  with  their  whole  hearts  not 
to  do.  It  was  the  angry  thought  of  a  moment,  and  He  for- 
gives you." 

She  sank  into  silence  again  till  it  was  nearly  midnight. 
The  weary  enfeebled  spirit  seemed  to  be  making  its  slow  way 


MU.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  179 

with  difficulty  through  the  windings  of  thought ;  and  when 
she  began  to  whisper  again,  it  was  in  reply  to  Maynard's 
words. 

"  But  I  had  had  such  wicked  feelings  for  a  long  while.  I 
was  so  angry,  and  I  hated  Miss  Assher  so,  and  I  didn't  care 
what  came  to  any  body,  because  I  was  so  miserable  myself.  I 
was  full  of  bad  passions.  No  one  else  was  ever  so  wicked." 

"  Yes,  Tina,  many  are  just  as  wicked.  I  often  have  very 
wicked  feelings,  and  am  tempted  to  do  wrong  things ;  luijt 
then  my  body  is  stronger  than  yours,  and  I  can  hide  my  fool- 
ings  and 'resist  them  better.  They  do  not  master  me  so.  You 
have  seen  the  little  birds  when  they  are  very  young  and  just 
begin  to  fly,  how  all  their  feathers  are  ruffled  when  they  are 
frightened  or  angry;  they  have  no  power  over  themselves 
left,  and  might  fall  into  a  pit  from  mere  fright.  You  "were 
like  one  of  those  little  birds.  Your  sorrow  and  suffering  had 
taken  such  hold  of  you,  you  hardly  knew  what  you  did." 

He  would  not  speak  long,  lest  he  should  tire  her,  and1  op- 
press her  with  too  many  thoughts.  Long  pauses  seemed 
needful  for  her  before  she  could  concentrate  her  feelings  in 
short  words. 

"  But  when  I  meant  to  do  it,"  was  the  next  thing  she  whis- 
pered, "  it  was  as  bad  as  if  I  had  done  it." 

"  No,  my  Tina,"  answered  Maynard  slowly,  waiting  a  little 
between  each  sentence  ;  "  we  mean  to  do  wicked  things  that 
we  never  could  do,  just  as  we  mean  to  do  good  or  clever 
things  that  we  never  could  do.  Our  thoughts  are  often  worse 
than  we  are,  just  as  they  are  often  better  than  we  are.  And 
God  sees  us  as  we  are  altogether,  not  in  separate  feelings  or 
actions,  as  our  fellow-men  see  us.  We  are  always  doing  each 
other  injustice,  and  thinking  better  or  worse  of  each  other 
than  we  deserve,  because  we  only  hear  and  see  separate  words 
and  actions.  We  don't  see  each  other's  whole  nature.  But 
God  sees  that  you  could  not  have  committed  that  crime." 

Caterina  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  was  silent.  After  a 
while, 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said ;  "I  seemed  to  see  him  coming 
towards  me,  just  as  he  would  really  have  looked,  and  I  meant 
— I  meant  to  do  it." 

"  But  when  you  saw  him — tell  me  how  it  was,  Tina  ?" 

"I  saw  him  lying  on  the  ground  and  thought  he  was  ill. 
I  don't  know  how  it  was  then ;  I  forgot  every  thing.  I 
knelt  down  and  spoke  to  him,  and — and  he  took  no  notice 
of  me,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and  I  began  to  think  he  was 
dead." 

"  And  you  have  never  felt  angry  since  ?" 


180  SCENES    OP    CLERICAL    LIFE. 

"  Oh  no,  no ;  it  is  I  who  have  been  more  wicked  than  any 
one  ;  it  is  I  who  have  been  wrong  all  through." 

"  No,  Tma^_-4h«Hfatt&-JiajLJioJL_all  been  yours  ;  lie  was 
wrong  4  heTgave  you  prorogation.  And  wrong  makes  wrong. 
When  people  use  us  ill,  we  can  hardly  help  having  ill  feeling 
towai'ds  them.  But  that  second  wrong  is  more  excusable.  I 
am  more  sinful  than  you,  Tina ;  I  have  often  had  very  bad 
feelings  towards  Captain  Wybrow ;  and  if  he  had  provoked 
me  as  he  did  you,  I  should  perhaps  have  done  something  more 
wicked." 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  so  wrong  in  him  ;  he  didn't  know  how  he 
hurt  me.  How  was  it  likely  he  could  love  me  as  I  loved 
him  ?  And  how  could  he  marry  a  poor  little  thing  like  me  ?" 

Maynard  made  no  reply  to  this,  and  there  was  again  si- 
lence, till  Tina  said, 

"Then  I  was  so  deceitful';  they  didn't  know  how  wicked 
I  was.  Padroncello  didn't  know ;  his  good  little  monkey  he 
used  to  call  me ;  and  if  he  had  known,  oh  how  naughty  he 
would  have  thought  me  !" 

"My  Tina,  we  have  all  our  secret  sins;  and  if  we  knew 
ourselves,  we  should  not  judge  each  other  harshly.  Sir  Chris- 
topher himself  has  felt,  since  this  trouble  came  upon  him,  that 
he  has  been  too  severe  and  obstinate." 

In  this  way — in  these  broken  confessions  and  answering 
words  of  comfort — the  hours  wore  on,  from  the  deep  black 
night  to  the  chill  early  twilight,  and  from  early  twilight  to 
the  first  yellow  streak  of  morning  parting  the  purple  cloud. 
Mr.  Gilfil  felt  as  if  in  the  long  hours  of  that  night  the  bond 
that  united  his  love  forever  and  alone  to  Caterina  had  ac- 
quired fresh  strength  and  sanctity.  It  is  so  with  the  human 
relations  that  rest  on  the  deep  emotional  sympathy  of  affec- 
tion ;  every  new  day  and  night  of  joy  or  sorrow  is  a  new 
ground,  a  new  consecration  for  the  love  that  is  nourished  by 
memories  as  well  as  hopes — the  love  to  which  perpetual  rep- 
etition is  not  a  weariness  but  a  want,  and  to  which  a  sepa- 
rated joy  is  the  beginning  of  pain. 

The  cocks  began  to  crow ;  the  gate  swung ;  there  was  a 
tramp  of  footsteps  in  the  yard,  and  Mr.  Gilfil  heard  Dorcas 
stirring.  These  sounds  seemed  to  affect  Caterina,  for  she 
looked  anxiously  at  him  and  said,  "  Maynard,  are  you  going 
away  ?" 

"  No,  I  shall  stay  here  at  GaJLJam  until  you  are  better,  and  v 
then  you  will  go  away  too." 

"  Never  to  the  Manor  again,  oh  no !  I  shall  live  poorly, 
and  get  my  own  bread." 

"  Well,  dearest,  you  shall  do  what  you  would  like  best. 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  181 

But  I  wish  you  could  go  to  sleep  now.  Try  to  rest  quietly, 
and  by-and-by  you  will  perhaps  sit  up  a  little.  God  has 
kept  you  in  life  in  spite  of  all  this  sorrow ;  it  will  be  sinful 
not  to  try  and  make  the  best  of  His  gift.  Dear  Tina,  you 
will  try ; — and  little  Bessie  brought  you  some  crocuses  once, 
you  didn't  notice  the  poor  little  thing ;  but  you  will  notice 
her  when  she  comes  again,  will  you  not  ?" 

"  I  will  try,"  whispered  Tina  humbly,  and  then  closed  her 
2yes. 

By  the  time  the  sun  was  above  the  horizon,  scattering  the 
clouds,  and  shining  with  pleasant  morning  warmth  through 
the  little  leaded  window,  Caterina  was  asleep.  Maynard 
gently  loosed  the  tiny  hand,  cheered  Dorcas  with  the  good 
news,  and  made  his  way  to  the  village  inn,  with  a  thankful 
heart  that  Tina  had  been  so  far  herself  again.  Evidently 
the  sight  of  him  had  blended  naturally  with  the  memories  in 
which  her  mind  was  absorbed,  and  she  had  been  led  on  to  an 
unburthehing  of  herself  that  might  be  the  beginning  of  a 
complete  restoration.  But  her  body  was  so  enfeebled — her 
soul  so  bruised — that  the  utmost  tenderness  and  care  would 
be  necessary.  The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  send  tid- 
ings to  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel ;  then  to  write 
and  summon  his  sister,  under  whose  care  he  had  determined 
to  place  Caterina.  The  Manor,  even  if  she  had  been  wishing 
to  return  thither,  would,  he  knew,  be  the  most  undesirable 
home  for  her  at  present ;  every  scene,  every  object  there, 
was  associated  with  still  unallayed  anguish.  If  she  were  do- 
mesticated for  a  time  with  his  mild,  gentle  sister,  who  had  a 
peaceful  home  and  a  prattling  little  boy,  Tina  might  attach 
herself  anew  to  life,  and  recover,  partly  at  least,  the  shock 
that  had  been  given  to  her  constitution.  When  he  had  writ- 
ten his  letters  and  taken  a  hasty  breakfast,  he  was  soon  in 
his  saddle  again,  on  his  way  to  Sloppeter,  where  he  would 
post  them,  and  seek  out  a  medical  man,  to  whom  he  might 
confide  the  moral  causes  of  Caterina's  enfeebled  condition. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IN  less  than  a  week  from  that  time,  Caterina  was  per- 
suaded to  travel  in  a  comfortable  carriage,  under  the  care  of 
Mr.  Gilfil  and  his  sister,  Mrs.  Heron,  whose  soft  blue  eyes  and 
mild  manners  were  very  soothing  to  the  poor  bruised  child 
— the  more  so  as  they  had  an  air  of  sisterly  equality  which 


182  SCENES    OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

was  quite  new  to  her.  Under  Lady  Cheverel's  uncaressing 
authoritative  good-will,  Tina  had  always  retained  a  certain 
constraint  and  awe ;  and  there  was  a  sweetness  before  un- 
known in  having  a  young  and  gentle  woman,  like  an  elder 
sister,  bending  over  her  caressingly,  and  speaking  in  low,  lov- 
ing tones. 

Maynard  was  almost  angry  with  himself  for  feeling  hap- 
py while  Tina's  mind  and  body  were  still  trembling  on  the 
verge  of  irrecoverable  decline ;  but  the  new  delight  of  acting 
as  her  guardian  angel,  of  being  with  her  every  hour  of  the 
day,  of  devising  every  thing  for  her  comfort,  of  watching  for 
a  ray  of  returning  interest  in  her  eyes,  was  too  absorbing  to 
leave  room  for  alarm  or  regret. 

On  the  third  day  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door  of 
Foxholm  Parsonage,  where  the  Rev.  Arthur  Heron  presented 
himself  on  the  door-step,  eager  to  greet  his  returning  Lucy, 
and  holding  by  the  hand  a  broad-chested,  tawny-haired  boy 
of  five,  who  was  smacking  a  miniature  hunting-whip  with 
great  vigor. 

Nowhere  was  there  a  lawn  more  smooth-shaven,  walks 
better  swept,  or  a  porch  more  prettily  festooned  with  creep- 
ers, than  at  Foxholm  Parsonage,  standing  snugly  sheltered 
by  beeches  and  chestnuts  half-way  down  the  pretty  green 
hill  which  was  surmounted  by  the  church,  and  overlooking 
a  village  that  straggled  at  its  ease  among  pastures  and  mead- 
ows, surrounded  by  wild  hedgerows  and  broad  shadowing 
trees,  as  yet  unthreatened  by  improved  methods  of  farming. 

Brightly  the  fire  shone  in  the  great  parlor,  and  brightly  in 
the  little  pink  bed-room,  which  was  to  be  Caterina's,  because 
it  looked  away  from  the  churchyard,  and  on  to  a  farm  home- 
stead, with  its  little  cluster  of  beehive  ricks,  and  placid 
groups  of  cows,  and  cheerful  matin  sounds  of  healthy  labor. 
Mrs.  Heron,  with  the  instinct  of  a  delicate,  impressible  wom- 
an, had  written  to  her  husband  to  have  this  room  prepared  for 
Caterina.  Contented  speckled  hens,  industriously  scratching 
for  the  rarely-found  corn,  may  sometimes  do  more  for  a  sick 
heart  than  a  grove  of  nightingales ;  there  is  something  ir- 
resistibly calming  in  the  unsentimental  cheeriness  of  top-knot- 
ted pullets,  unpetted  sheep-dogs,  and  patient  cart-horses  en- 
joying a  drink  of  muddy  water. 

In  such  a  home  as  this  parsonage,  a  nest  of  comfort,  with- 
out any  of  the  stateliness  that  would  carry  a  suggestion  of 
Cheverel  Manor,  Mr.  Gilfil  was  not  unreasonable  in  hoping 
that  Caterina  might  gradually  shake  off  the  haunting  vision 
of  the  past,  and  recover  from  the  languor  and  feebleness 
which  were  the  physical  sign  of  that  vision's  blighting  pres- 


MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  183 

ence.  The  next  tiling  to  bed  one  was  to  arrange  an  ex- 
change of  duties  with  Mr.  Heron's  curate,  that  Maynard 
might  be  constantly  near  Caterina,  and  watch  over  her  prog- 
ress. She  seemed  to  like  him  to  be  with  her,  to  look  uneasi- 
ly for  his  return  ;  and  though  she  seldom  spoke  to  him,  she 
was  most  contented  when  he  sat  by  her,  and  held  her  tiny 
hand  in  his  large  protecting  grasp.  But  Oswald,  alias  Ozzy, 
the  broad-chested  boy,  was  perhaps  her  most  beneficial  com- 
panion. With  something  of  his  uncle's  person,  he  had  inher- 
ited also  his  uncle's  early  taste  for  a  domestic  menagerie, 
and  was  very  imperative  in  demanding  Tina's  sympathy  in 
the  welfare  of  his  guinea-pigs,  squirrels,  and  dormice.  With 
him  she  seemed  now  and  then  to  have  gleams  of  her  child- 
hood coming  athwart  the  leaden  clouds,  and  many  hours  of 
winter  went  by  the  more  easily  for  being  spent  in  Ozzy's 
nursery. 

Mrs.  Heron  was  not  musical,  and  had  no  instrument ;  but 
one  of  Mr.  Gilfil's  cares  was  to  procure  a  harpsichord,  and 
have  it  placed  in  the  drawing-room,  always  open,  in  the  hope 
that  some  day  the  spirit  of  music  would  be  reawakened  in 
Caterina,  and  she  would  be  attracted  towards  the  instrument. 
But  the  winter  was  almost  gone  by,  and  he  had  waited  in 
vain.  The  utmost  improvement  in  Tina  had  not  gone  be- 
yond passiveness  and  acquiescence — a  quiet  grateful  smile, 
compliance  \yith  Oswald's  whims,  and  increasing  conscious- 
ness of  what  was  being  said  and  done  around  her.  Some- 
times she  would  take  up  a  bit  of  woman's  work,  but  she  seemed 
too  languid  to  persevere  in  it ;  her  fingers  soon  dropped,  and 
she  relapsed  into  motionless  reverie. 

At  last — it  was  one  of  those  bright  days  in  the  end  of  Feb- 
ruary, when  the  sun  is  shining  with  a  promise  of  approach- 
ing spring.  Maynard  had  been  \valking  with  her  and  Os- 
wald round  the  garden  to  look  at  the  snowdrops,  and  she 
was  resting  on  the  sofa  after  the  walk.  Ozzy,  roaming  about 
the  room  in  quest  of  a  forbidden  pleasure,  came  to  the  harp- 
sichord, and  struck  the  handle  of  his  whip  on  a  deep  bass  note. 

The  vibration  rushed  through  Caterina  like  an  electric 
shock  :  it  seemed  as  if  at  that  instant  a  new  soul  were  enter- 
ing into  her,  and  filling  her  with  a  deeper,  more  significant 
life.  She  looked  round,  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  walked  to 
the  harpsichord.  In  a  moment  her  fingers  were  wandering 
with  their  old  sweet  method  among  the  keys,  and  her  soul 
was  floating  in  its  true  familiar  element  of  delicious  sound, 
as  the  water-plant  that  lies  withered  and  shrunken  on  the 
ground  expands  into  freedom  and  beauty  when  once  more 
bathed  in  its  native  flood. 


184  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Maynard  thanked  God.  An  active  power  was  reawaken- 
ed, and  must  make  a  new  epoch  in  Caterina's  recovery. 

Presently  there  were  low  liquid  notes  blending  themselves 
with  the  harder  tones  of  the  instrument,  and  gradually  the 
pure  voice  swelled  into  predominance.  Little  Ozzy  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  legs 
very  wide  apart,  struck  with  something  like  awe  at  this  new 
power  in  "  Tin-Tin,"  as  he  called  her,  whom  he  had  been  ac» 
customed  to  think  of  as  a  playfellow  not  at  all  clever,  and 
very  much  in  need  of  his  instruction  on  many  subjects.  A 
genie  soaring  with  broad  wings  out  of  his  milk-jug  would 
not  have  been  more  astonishing. 

Caterina  was  singing  the  very  air  from  the  Orfeo  which 
we  heard  her  singing  so  many  months  ago  at  the  beginning 
of  her  sorrows.  It  was  Che  faro,  Sir  Christopher's  favorite, 
and  its  notes  seemed  to  carry  on  their  wings  all  the  tender- 
est  memories  of  her  life,  when  Cheverel  Manor  was  still  an  un- 
troubled home.  The  long  happy  days  of  childhood  and  girl- 
hood recovered  all  their  rightful  predominance  over  the  short 
interval  of  sin  and  sorrow. 

She  paused,  and  burst  into  tears — the  first  tears  she  had 
shed  since  she  had  been  at  Foxholm.  Maynard  could  not 
help  hurrying  towards  her,  putting  his  arm  round  her,  and 
leaning  down  to  kiss  her  hair.  She  nestled  to  him,  and  put 
up  her  little  mouth  to  be  kissed. 

The  delicate-tend rilled  plant  must  have  something  to  cling 
to.  The  soul  that  was  born  anew  to  music  was  born  anew 
to  love. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

OK  the  30th  of  May,  1790,  a  very  pretty  sight  was  seen  by 
the  villagers  assembled  near  the  door  of  Foxholm  Church. 
The  sun  was  bright  upon  the  dewy  grass,  the  air  was  alive 
with  the  murmur  of  bees  and  the  thrilling  of  birds,  the  bushy 
blossoming  chestnuts  and  the  foamy  flowering  hedgerows 
seemed  to  be  crowding  round  to  learn  why  the  church-bells 
were  ringing  so  merrily,  as  Maynard  Gilfil,  his  face  bright 
with  happiness,  walked  out  of  the  old  Gothic  doorway  with 
Tina  on  his  arm.  The  little  face  was  still  pale,  and  there  was 
a  subdued  melancholy  in  it,  as  of  one  who  sups  with  friends 
for  the  last  time,  and  has  his  ear  open  for  the  signal  that  will 
call  him  away.  But  the  tiny  hand  rested  with  the  pressure 


MR.  GILFIL'S   LOVE-STORY.  185 

of  contented  affection  on  Maynard's  arm,  and  the  dark  eyes 
met  his  downward  glance  with  timid  answering  love. 

There  was  no  train  of  bridesmaids  ;  only  pretty  Mrs.  Heron 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  dark-haired  young  man  hitherto  un- 
known in  Foxholm,  and  holding  by  the  other  hand  little  Ozzy, 
who  exulted  less  in  his  new  velvet  cap  and  tunic,  than  in  the 
notion  that  he  was  bridesman  to  Tin-Tin. 

Last  of  all  came  a  couple  whom  the  villagers  eyed  yet  more 
eagerly  than  the  bride  and  bridegroom :  a  tine  old  gentleman, 
who  looked  round  with  keen  glances  that  cowed  the  conscious 
scapegraces  among  them,  and  a  stately  lady  in  blue-and- white 
silk  robes,  who  must  surely  be  like  Queen  Charlotte. 

"  Well,  that  theer's  whut  I  call  a  pictur,"  said  old  "  Mester  " 
Ford,  a  true  Staffordshire  patriarch,  who  leaned  on  a  stick  and 
held  his  head  very  much  on  one  side,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  had  little  hope  of  the  present  generation,  but  would  at 
all  events  give  it  the  benefit  of  his  criticism.  "  Th'  yoong 
men  noo-a-deys,  the're  poor  squashy  things — the'  looke  well 
anoof,  but  the'  woon't  wear,  the'  woon't  wear.  Theer's  ne'ei 
un  '11  carry  his  'ears  like  that  Sir  Cris'fer  Chuvrell." 

"  'Ull  bet  ye  two  pots,"  said  another  of  the  seniors,  "  as  that 
yoongster  a-walkin'  wi'  th'  parson's  wife  '11  be  Sir  Cris'fer's 
son — he  favors  him." 

"  Nay,  yae'll  bet  that  wi'  as  big  a  fule  as  yersen ;  hae's  noo 
son  at  all.  As  I  oonderstan',  hae's  the  nevey  as  is  t'heir  th' 
esteate.  The  coochman  as  puts  oop  at  th'  White  Hoss  tellt  me 
as  theer  war  another  nevey,  a  deal  finer  chap  t'  looke  at  nor 
this  un,  as  died  in  a  fit,  all  on  a  soodden,  an'  soo  this  here 
yoong  un's  got  upo'  th'  perch  istid." 

At  the  church  gate  Mr.  Bates  was  standing  in  a  new  suit, 
ready  to  speak  words  of  good  omen  as  the  bride  and  bride- 

froom  approached.  He  had  come  all  the  way  f 'om  Cheverel 
lanor  on  purpose  to  see  Miss  Tina  happy  once  more,  and 
would  have  been  in  a  state  of  unmixed  joy  but  for  the  inferi- 
ority of  the  wedding  nosegays  to  what  he  could  have  furnish- 
ed from  the  garden  at  the  Manor. 

"  God  A'maighty  bless  ye  both,  an'  send  ye  long  laife  an' 
happiness,"  were  the  good  gardener's  raJier  tremulous  words. 

"  Thank  you,  uncle  Bates ;  always  remember  Tina,"  said 
the  sweet  low  voice,  which  fell  on  Mr.  Bates's  ear  for  the  last 
time. 

The  wedding  journey  was  to  be  a  circuitous  route  to  Shep- 
perton,  where  Mr.  Gilfil  had  been  for  several  months  inducted 
as  vicar.  This  small  living  had  been  given  him  through  the  in- 
terest of  an  old  friend  who  had  some  claim  on  the  gratitude 
of  the  Oldinport  family ;  and  it  was  a  satisfaction  both  to 


186  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Maynard  and  Sir  Christopher  that  a  home  to  which  he  might 
take  Caterina  had  thus  readily  presented  itself  at  a  distance 
from  Cheverel  Manor.  For  it  had  never  yet  been  thought 
safe  that  she  should  revisit  the  scene  of  her  sufferings,  her 
health  continuing  too  delicate  to  encourage  the  slightest  risk 
of  painful  excitement.  In  a  year  or  two,  perhaps  by  the  time 
old  Mr.  Crichley,  the  rector  of  Cumbermoor,  should  have  left 
a  world  of  gout,  and  when  Caterina  would  very  likely  be  a 
happy  mother,  Maynard  might  safely  take  up  his  abode  at 
Cumbermoor,  and  Tina  would  feel  nothing  but  content  at  see- 
ing a  new  il  little  black-eyed  monkey"  running  up  and  down 
the  gallery  and  gardens  of  the  Manor.  A  mother  dreads  no 
memories — those  shadows  have  all  melted  away  in  the  dawn 
of  baby's  smile. 

In  these  hopes,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  Tina's  nestling  af- 
fection, Mr.  Gilfil  tasted  a  few  months  of  perfect  happiness. 
She  had  come  to  lean  entirely  on  his  love,  and  to  find  life 
sweet  for  his  sake.  Her  continual  languor  and  want  of  act- 
ive interest  was  a  natural  consequence  of  bodily  feebleness, 
and  the  prospect  of  her  becoming  a  mpther  was  a  new  ground 
for  hoping  the  best. 

But  the  delicate  plant  had  been  too  deeply  bruised,  and  in 
the  struggle  to  put  forth  a  blossom  it  died. 

Tina  died,  and  Maynard  Gilfil's  love  went  with  her  into 
deep  silence  for  evermore. 


EPILOGUE. 

THIS  was  Mr.  Gilfil's  love-story,  which  lay  far  back  from 
the  time  when  he  sat,  worn  and  gray,  by  his  lonely  fireside 
in  Shepperton  Vicarage.  Rich  brown  locks,  passionate  love, 
and  deep  early  sorrow,  strangely  different  as  they  seem  from 
the  scanty  white  hairs,  the  apathetic  content,  and  the  unex- 
pectant  quiescence  of  old  age,  are  but  part  of  the  same  life's 
journey ;  as  the  bright  Italian  plains,  with  the  sweet  Addio 
of  their  beckoning  maidens,  are  part  of  the  same  day's  travel 
that  brings  us  to  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  between  the 
sombre  rocky  walls  and  among  the  guttural  voices  of  the 
Valais. 

To  those  who  were  familiar  only  with  the  gray-haired  Vic- 
ar, jogging  leisurely  along  on  his  old  chestnut  cob,  it  would 
perhaps  have  been  hard  to  believe  that  he  had  ever  been  the 
Maynard  Gilfil  who,  with  a  heart  full  of  passien-anttTender- 
ness,  had.urged  his  black  Kitty  to  her  swiftest  gallop  on  the 
way  to  CaTlamTBT  that  the  old  gentleman  of  caustic  tongue, 


MR.  GILPIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  187 

and  bucolic  tastes,  and  sparing  habits,  had  known  all  the 
deep  secrets  of  devoted  love,  had  struggled  through  its  days 
and  nights  of  anguish,  and  trembled  under  its  unspeakable 
joys.  And  indeed  the  Mr.  Gilfil  of  those  late  Shepperlon 
days  had  more  of  the  knots  and  ruggedness  of  poor  human 
nature  than  there  lay  any  clear  hint  of  in  the  open-eyed,  lov- 
ing Maynard.  But  it  is  with  men  as  with  trees  :  if  you  lop 
oft'  their  finest  branches,  injto  which  they  were  pouring  their 
young  life-juice,  the  wounds  will  be  healed  over  with  some 
rough  boss,  some  odd  excrescence  ;  and  what  might  have  been 
a  grand  tree  expanding  into  liberal  shade,  is  but  a  whimsical, 
misshapen  trunk.  JVIany  an  irritating  fault,  many  an  unlove- 
ly oddity,  has  come  of  a  hard  sorrow,  which  has  crushed  and 
maimed  the  nature  just  w.hen  it  was  expanding  into  plente- 
ous beauty ;  and  the  trivial  erring  life  which  we  visit  with 
our  harsh  blame,  may  be  but  as  the  unsteady  motion  of  a 
man  whose  best  limb  is  withered. 

And  s6  the  dear  old  Vicar,  though  he  nad  something  of 
the  knotted,  whimsical  character  of  the  poor  lopped  oak,  had 
yet  been  sketched  out  by  nature  as  a  noble  tree.  The  heart 
of  him  was  sound,  the  grain  was  of  the  finest ;  and  in  the 
gray-haired  man  who  filled  his  pocket  with  sugar-plums  for 
the  little  children,  whose  most  biting  words  were  directed 
against  the  evil  doing  of  the  rich  man,  and  who,  with  all  his 
social  pipes  and  slipshod  talk,  never  sank  below  the  highest 
level  of  his  parishioners'  respect,  there  was  the  main  trunk  of 
the  same  brave,  faithful,  tender  nature  that  had  poured  out 
the  finest,  freshest  forces  of  its  life-current  in  a  first  and  only 
love — the  love  of  Tina. 


JANET'S    REPENTANCE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"No!"  said  lawyer  Dempster,  in  a  loud,  rasping,  oratori- 
cal tone,  struggling  against  chronic  huskiness,  "as  long  as  my 
Maker  grants  me  power  of  voice  and  power  of  intellect,  I  will 
take  every  legal  means  to  resist  the  introduction  of  demoral- 
izing, methodistical  doctrine  into  this  parish ;  I  will  not  su- 
pinely suffer  an  insult  to  be  inflicted  on  our  venerable  pas- 
tor, who  has  given  us  sound  instruction  for  half  a  century." 

It  was  very  warm  everywhere  that  evening,  but  especial- 
ly in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion  at  Milby,  where  Mr.  Dempster 
was  seated  mixing  his  third  glass  of  brandy-and-water.  He 
was  a  tall  and  rather  massive  man,  and  the  front  half  of  his 
large  «nrface-wtiS  so  well  dredged  with  snuff,  that  the  cat, 
having  inadvertently  come  near  him,  had  been  sefzed  with  a 
severe  fit  of  sneezing — an  accident  which,  being  cruelly  mis- 
understood, had  caused  her  to  be  driven  contumeliously  from 
the  bar.  Mr.  Dempster  habitually  held  his  chin  tucked  in, 
and  his  head  hanging  forward,  weighed  down,  perhaps,  by  a 
preponderant  occiput  and  a  bulging  forehead,  between  which 
his  closely-clipped  coronal  surface  lay  like  a  flat  and  new-mown 
table-land.  The  only  other  observable  features  were  puffy 
cheeks  and  a  protruding  yet  lipless  mouth.  Of  his  nose  I 
can  only  say  that  it  was  snuffy ;  and  as  Mr.  Dempster  was 
never  caught  in  the  act  of  looking  at  any  thing  in  particular, 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  swear  to  the  color  of  his  eyes. 

"  Well !  I'll  not  stick  at  giving  myself  trouble  to  put 
down  such  hypocritical  cant,"  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  the  rich 
miller.  "I  know  well  enough  what  your  Sunday  evening 
lectures  are  good  for — for  wenches  to  meet  their  sweethearts, 
and  brew  mischief.  There's  work  enough  with  the  servant- 
maids  as  it  rs — such  as  I  never  heard  the  like  of  in  my  moth- 
er's time,  and  it's  all  along  o'  your  schooling  and  newfangled 
plans.  Give  me  a  servant  as  can  nayther  read  nor  write,  I 


190  SCENES    OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

say,  and  doesn't  know  the  year  o'  the  Lord  as  she  was  born 
in.  I  should  like  to  know  what  good  those  Sunday  schools 
have  done,  now.  Why,  the  boys  used  to  go  a  bird's-nesting 
of  a  Sunday  morning ;  and  a  capital  thing  too — ask  any  farm- 
er ;  and  very  pretty  it  was  to  see  the  strings  o'  heggs  hang- 
ing up  in  poor  people's  houses.  You'll  not  see  'em  nowhere 
now." 

"  Pooh  !"  said  Mr.  Luke  Byles,  who  piqued  himself  on  his 
reading,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  asking  casual  acquaintances 
•  if  they  knew  any  thing  of  Hobbes;  "it  is  right  enough  that 
the  lower  orders  should  be  instructed.  But  this  sectarianism 
within  the  Church  ought  to  be  put  down.  In  ,pmni_a£-fkct, 
these  Evangelicals  are  not  Churchmen  at  all ;  they're  no_bet- 
ter  than  Pre'sByteTTims;**^ 

"  Presbyterans  ?  what  are  they  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Tomlinson, 
who  often  said  his  father  had  given  him  "  no  eddication,  and 
he  didn't  care  who  knowed  it ;  he  could  buy  up  most  o'  th' 
eddicated  men  he'd  ever  come  across." 

"  The  Presbyterians,"  said  Mr.  Dempster,  in  rather  a  loud- 
er tone  than  before,  holding  that  every  appeal  for  information 
must  naturally  be  addressed  to  him,  "  are  a  sect  founded  in 
the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  by  a  man  named  John  Presbyter, 
who  hatched  all  the  brood  of  Dissenting  vermin  that  crawl 
about  in  dirty  alleys,  and  circumvent  the  lord  of  the  manor 
in  order  to  get  a  few  yards  of  ground  for  their  pigeon-house 
conventicles." 

"  No,  no,  Dempster,"  said  Mr.  Luke  Byles,  "  you're  out 
there.  Presbyterianism  is  derived  from  the  word  presbyter, 
meaning  an  elder." 

"  Don't  contradict  me,  sir  !"  stormed  Dempster.  "  I  say 
the  word  presbyterian  is  derived  from  John  Presbyter,  a  mis- 
erable fanatic  who  wore  a  suit  of  leather,  and  went  about 
from  town  to  village,  and  from  village  to  hamlet,  inoculating 
the  vulgar  with  the  asinine  virus  of  Dissent." 

"  Come,  Byles,  that  seems  a  deal  more  likely,"  said  Mr. 
Tomlinson,  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  apparently  of  opinion  that 
history  was  a  process  of  ingenious  guessing. 

"It's  not  a  question  of  likelihood;  it's  a  known  fact.  I 
could  fetch  you  my  Encyclopedia,  and  show  it  you  this  mo- 
ment," 

"  I  don't  care  a  straw,  sir,  either  for  you  or  your  Encyclo- 
paedia," said  Mr.  Dempster;  "a  farrago  of  false  information, 
of  which  you  picked  up  an  imperfect  copy  in  a  cargo  of  waste 
paper.  Will  you  tell  me,  sir,  that  I  don't  know  the  origin  of 
Presbyterianism  ?  I,  sir,  a  man  known  through  the  county, 
intrusted  with  the  affairs  of  half  a  score  of  parishes ;  while 


JANETS    REPENTANCE.  191 

yon,  sir,  are  ignored  by  the  very  fleas  that  infest  the  miser- 
able alley  in  which  you  were  bred." 

A  loud  and  general  laugh,  with  "  You'd  better  let  him 
alone,  Byles ;"  "  You'll  not  get  the  better  of  Dempster  in  a 
hurry,"  drowned  the  retort  of  the  too  well  informed  Mr.  Byles, 
who,  white  with  rage,  rose  and  walked  out  of  the  bar. 

"  A  meddlesome,  upstart,  Jacobinical  fellow,  gentlemen," 
continued  Mr.  Dempster.  "  I  was  determined  to  be  rid  of  him. 
What  does  he  mean  by  thrusting  himself  into  our  company  ? 
A  man  with  about  as  much  principle  as  he  has  property,  which, 
to  my  knowledge,  is  considerably  less  than  none.  An  insol- 
vent atheist,  gentlemen.  A  deistical  prater,  fit  to  sit  in  the 
chimney-corner  of  a  pot-house,  and  make  blasphemous  com- 
ments on  the  one  greasy  newspaper  fingered  by  beer-swilling 
tinkers.  I  will  not  suffer  in  my  company  a  man  who  speaks 
lightly  of  religion.  The  signature  of  a  fellow  like  Byles 
would  be  a  blot  on  our  protest." 

"  And  how  do  you  get  on  with  your  signatures  ?"  said  Mr. 
Pilgrim,  the  doctor,  who  had  presented  his  large  top-booted 
person  within  the  bar  while  Mr.  Dempster  was  speaking.  Mr. 
Pilgrim  had  just  returned  from  one  of  his  long  day's  rounds 
among  the  farm-houses,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had  sat 
down  to  two  hearty  meals  that  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  dinners  if  he  had  not  declared  them  to  be  "  snaps  ;"  and 
as  each  snap  had  been  followed  by  a  few  glasses  of"  mixture," 
containing  a  less  liberal  proportion  of  water  than  the  articles 
he  himself  labelled  with  that  broadly  generic  name,  he  was 
in  that  condition  which  his  groom  indicated  with  poetic  am- 
biguity by  saying  that  "  master  had  been  in  the  sunshine." 
Under  these  circumstances,  after  a  hard  day,  in  which  he  had 
really  had  no  regular  meal,  it  seemed  a  natural  relaxation  to 
step  into  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion,  where,  as  it  was  Saturday 
evening,  he  should  be  sure  to  find  Dempster,  and  hear  the 
latest  news  about  the  protest  against  the  evening  lecture. 

"  Have  you  hooked  Ben  Landor  yet  ?"  he  continued,  as  he 
took  two  chairs,  one  for  his  body,  and  the  other  for  his  right 
leg. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Budd,  the  churchwarden,  shaking  his  head ; 
"  Ben  Landor  has  a  way  of  keeping  himself  neutral  in  every 
thing,  and  he  doesn't  like  to  oppose  his  father.  Old  Landor 
is  a  regular  Tryanite.  But  we  haven't  got  your  name  yet, 
Pilgrim." 

"  Tut  tut,  Budd,"  said  Mr.  Dempster,  sarcastically,  "  you 
don't  expect  Pilgrim  to  sign?  He's  got  a  dozen  Tryanite 
livers  under  his  treatment.  Nothing  like  cant  and  method- 
ism  for  producing  a  superfluity  of  bile." 


192  SCENES    OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

"  Oh,  I  thought,  as  Pratt  had  declared  himself  a  Tryanite, 
we  should  be  sure  to  get  Pilgrim  on  our  side." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  was  not  a  man  to  sit  quiet  under  a  sarcasm,  na- 
ture having  endowed  him  with  a  considerable  share  of  self- 
defensive  wit.  In  his  most  sober  moments  he  had  an  imped- 
iment in  his  speech,  and  as  copious  gin-and-water  stimulat- 
ed not  the  speech  but  the  impediment,  he  had  time  to  make 
his  retort  sufficiently  bitter. 

"  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Budd,"  he  spluttered,  "there's 
a  report  all  over  the  town  that  Deb  Traunter  swears  you 
shall  take  her  with  you  as  one  of  the  delegates,  and  they  say 
there's  to  be  a  fine  crowd  at  your  door  the  morning  you  start, 
to  see  the  row.  Knowing  your  tenderness  for  that  member 
of  the  fair  sexjl  thought  you  might  find  it  impossible  to  deny 
her.  I  hang  back  a  little  from  signing  on  that  account,  as 
Prenclergast  might  not  take  the  protest  well  if  Deb  Traunter 
went  with  you." 

Mr.  Budd  was  a  small,  sleek-headed  bachelor  of  five-and- 
forty,  whose  scandalous  life  had  long  furnished  his  more  moral 
neighbors  with  an  after-dinner  joke.  He  had  no  other  strik- 
ing characteristic,  except  that  he  was  a  currier  of  choleric 
temperament,  so  that  you  might  wonder  why  he  had  been 
chosen  as  clergyman's  churchwarden,  if  I  did  not  tell  you 
that  he  had  recently  been  elected  through  Mr.  Dempster's  ex- 
ertions, in  order  that  his  zeal  against  the  threatened  evening 
lecture  might  be  backed  by  the  dignity  of  office. 

"  Come,  come,  Pilgrim,"  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  covering  Mr. 
Budd's  retreat,  "  you  know  you  like  to  wear  the  crier's  coat, 
green  o'  one  side  and  red  o'  the  other.  You've  been  to  hear 
Tryan  preach  at  Paddiford  Common — you  know  you  have." 

"  To  be  sure  I  have ;  and  a  capital  sermon  too.  It's  a  pity 
you  were  not  there.  It  was  addressed  to  those  '  void  of  un- 
derstanding.' " 

"  No,  no,  you'll  never  catch  me  there,"  returned  Mr.  Tom- 
linson, not  in  the  least  stung ;  "  he  preaches  without  book, 
they  say,  just  like  a  Dissenter.  It  must  be  a  rambling  sort 
of  a  concern." 

"  That's  not  the  worst,"  said  Mr.  Dempster ;  "  he  preaches 
against  good  works;  says  good  works  are  not  necessary  to 
salvation — a  sectarian,  antinomian,  anabaptist  doctrine.  Tell 
a  man  he  is  not  to  be  saved  by  his  works,  and  you  open  the 
flood-gates  of  all  immorality.  You  see  it  in  all  these  canting 
innovators;  they're  all  bad  ones  by  the  sly;  smooth-faced, 
drawling,  hypocritical  fellows,  who  pretend  ginger  isn't  hot 
in  their  mouths,  and  cry  down  all  innocent  pleasures ;  their 
hearts  are  all  the  blacker  for  their  sanctimonious  outsides. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  193 

Haven't  we  been  warned  against  those  who  make  clean  the 
outside  of  the  cup  and  the  platter  ?  Th£i£!a-tht8  Tryan^-now, 
he  goes  about  praying  with  old  women,  and  singing  with 
charity-children;  but  what  has  he  Fe«Uy  gat  his- eye  on  all  the 
while  ?  A  domineering  ambitious  Jesuit,  gentlemen ;  all  he 
wants  is  to  get  his  foot  far  enough  into  the  parish  to  step 
into  Crewe's  shoes  when  the  old  gentleman  dies.  Depend 
upon  it,  whenever  you  see  a  man  pretending  to  be  better 
than  his  neighbors,  that  man  has  either  some  cunning  end  to 
serve,  or  his  heart  is  rotten  with  spiritual  pride." 

As  if  to  guarantee  himself  against  this  awful  sin,  Mr. 
Dempster  seized  his  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  and  tossed 
off  the  contents  with  even  greater  rapidity  than  usual. 

"  Have  you  fixed  on  your  third  delegate  yet  ?"  said  Mr. 
Pilgrim,  whose  taste  was  for  detail  rather  than  for  disserta- 
tion. 

"  That's  the  man,"  answered  Dempster,  pointing  to  Mr. 
Tomlinson.  "  We  start  for  Elmstoke  Rectory  on  Tuesday 
morning ;  so,  if  you  mean  to  give  us  your  signature,  you 
must  make  up  your  mind  pretty  quickly,  Pilgrim." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  did  not  in  the  least  mean  it,  so  he  only  said,  "  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  Tryan  turns  out  too  many  for  you,  after 
all.  He's  got  a  well-oiled  tongue  of  his  own,  and  has  per- 
haps talked  over  Prendergast  into  a  determination  to  stand 
by  him." 

"  Ve-ry  little  fear  of  that,"  said  Dempster,  in  a  confident 
tone.  "  I'll  soon  bring  him  round.  Tryan  has  got  his  match. 
I've  plenty  of  rods  in  pickle  for  Tryan." 

At  this  moment  Boots  entered  the  bar,  and  put  a  letter  into 
the  lawyer's  hands,  saying,  "  There's  Trower's  man  just  come 
into  the  yard  wi'  a  gig,  sir,  an'  he's  brought  this  here  let- 
ter." 

Mr.  Dempster  read  the  letter  and  said,  "  Tell  him  to  turn 
the  gig — I'll  be  with  him  in  a  minute.  Here,  run  to  Gruby's 
and  get  this  snuff-box  filled — quick  !" 

"  Trower's  worse,  I  suppose  ;  eh,  Dempster  ?  Wants  you 
to  alter  his  will,  eh  ?"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim. 

"Business  —  business — business — I  don't  know  exactly 
what,"  answered  the  cautious  Dempster,  rising  deliberately 
from  his  chair,  thrusting  on  his  low-crowned  hat,  and  walk-? 
ing  with  a  slow  but  not  unsteady  step  out  of  the  bar. 

"  I  never  see  Dempster's  equal ;  if  I  did  I'll  be  shot,"  said 
Mr.  Tomlinson,  looking  after  the  lawyer  admiringly.  "  Why, 
he's  drunk  the  best  part  of  a  bottle  o'  brandy  since  here 
we've  been  sitting,  and  I'll  bet  a  guinea,  when  he's  got  to 
Trower's  his  head'll  be  as  clear  as  mine.  He  knows  more 


194  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

about  law  when  he's  drunk  than  all  the  rest  on  'em  when 
they're  sober." 

"  Ay,  and  other  things  too,  besides  law,"  said  Mr.  Budd. 
"  Did  you  notice  how  he  took  up  Byles  about  the  Presbyte- 
rians ?  Bless  your  heart,  he  knows  every  thing,  Dempster 
does.  He  studied  very  hard  when  he  was  a  young  man." 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE  conversation  just  recorded  is  not,  I  am  aware,  re- 
markably refined  or  witty  ;  but  if  it  had  been,  it  could  hard- 
ly have  taken  place  in  Milby  when  Mr.  Dempster  flourished 
there,  and  old  Mr.  Crewe,  the  curate,  was  yet  alive. 

More  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  has  slipped  by  since 
then,  and  in  the  interval  Milby  has  advanced  at  as  rapid  a 
pace  as  other  market-towns  in  her  Majesty's  dominions.  By 
this  time  it  has  a  handsome  railway  station,  where  the  drowsy 
London  traveller  may  look  out  by  the  brilliant  gas-light  and 
see  perfectly  sober  papas  and  husbands  alighting  with  their 
leather-bags  after  transacting  their  day's  business  at  the 
county  town.  There  is  a  resident  rector,  who  appeals  to  the 
consciences  of  his  hearers  with  all  the  immense  advantages 
of  a  divine  who  keeps  his  own  carriage;  the  church  is  en- 
larged by  at  least  five  hundred  sittings ;  and  the  grammar- 
««chool,  conducted  on  reformed  principles,  has  its  upper  forms 
<rowded  with  the  genteel  youth  of  Milby.  The  gentlemen 
there  fall  into  no  other  excess  at  dinner-parties  than  the  per- 
fectly well-bred  and  virtuous  excess  of  stupidity ;  and  though 
the  ladies  are  -stilL-said-sometimes  to  take  too  much  upon 
themselves,  they  aro  never  known  to  take  too  much  in  any 
other  way.  The  conversation  is  sometimes  quite  literary, 
for  there  is  a  flourishing  book-club,  and  many  of  the  younger 
ladies  have  carried  their  studies  so  far  as  to  have  forgotten 
a  little  German.  In  short,  Milby  is  now  a  refined,  moral, 
and  enlightened  town ;  no  more  resembling  the  Milby  of 
former  days  than  the  huge,  long-skirted,  drab  great-coat  that 
embarrassed  the  ankles  of  our  grandfathers  resembled  the 
light  paletot  in  which  we  tread  jauntily  through  the  muddi- 
est streets,  or  than  the  bottle-nosed  Britons,  rejoicing  over  a 
tankard  in  the  old  sign  of  the  Two  Travellers  at  Milby,  re- 
sembled the  severe-looking  gentleman  in  straps  and  high  col- 
lars whom  a  modern  artist  has  represented  as  sipping  the 
imaginary  port  of  that  well-known  commercial  house. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  195 

But  pray,  reader,  dismiss  from  your  mind  all  the  refined 
and  fashionable  ideas  associated  with  this  advanced  state  of 
things,  and  transport  your  imagination  to  a  time  when  JMilby 
had  no  gas-lights ;  when  the  mail  drove  up  dusty  or  be- 
spattered to  the  door  of  the  Red  Lion  ;  when  old  Mr.  Crewe, 
the  curate,  in  a  brown  Brutus  wig,  delivered  inaudible  ser- 
mons on  a  Sunday,  and  on  a  week-day  imparted  the  educa- 
tion of  a  gentleman — that  is  to  say,  an  arduous  inacquaintance 
with  Latin  through  the  medium  of  the  Eton  Grammar — to 
three  pupils  in  the  upper  grammar-school. 

If  you  had  passed  through  Milby  on  the  coach  at  that  time, 
you  would  have  had  no  idea  what  important  people  lived 
there,  and  how  very  high  a  sense  of  rank  was  prevalent  among 
them.  It  was  a  dingy-looking  town,  with  a  strong  smell  of 
tanning  up  one  street  and  a  great  shaking  of  hand-looms  up 
another ;  and  even  in  that  focus  of  aristocracy,  Friar's  Gate, 
the  houses  would  not  have  seemed  very  imposing  to  the  hasty 
and  superficial  glance  of  a  passenger.  You  might  still  less 
have  suspected  that  the  figure  in  light  fustian  and  large  gray 
whiskers,  leaning  against  the  grocer's  door-post  in  High 
Street,  was  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Lovvme,  one  of  the 
most  aristocratic  men  in  Milby,  said  to  have  been  "  brought 
up  a  gentleman,"  and  to  have  had  the  gay  habits  accordant 
with  that  station,  keeping  his  harriers  and  other  expensive 
animals.  He  was  now  quite  an  elderly  Lothario,  reduced  to 
the  most  economical  sins ;  the  prominent  form  of  his  gayety 
being  this  of  lounging  at  Mr.  Gruby's  door,  embarrassing  the 
servant-maids  who  came  for  grocery,  and  talking  scandal  with 
the  rare  passers-by.  Still,  it  was  generally  understood  that 
Mr.  Lowme  belonged  to  the  highest  circle  of  Milby  society ; 
his  sons  and  daughters  held  up  their  heads  very  high  indeed ; 
and  in  spite  of  his  condescending  way  of  chatting  and  drink- 
ing with  inferior  people,  he  would  himself  have  scorned  any 
sloser  identification  with  them.  It  must  be  admitted  that 
he  Avas  of  some  service  to  the  town  in  this  station  at  Mr. 
Gruby's  door,  for  he  and  Mr.  Lander's  Newfoundland  dog, 
who  stretched  himself  and  gaped  on  the  opposite  causeway, 
took  something  from  the  lifeless  air  that  belonged  to  the 
High  street  on  every  day  except  Saturday. 

Certainly,  in  spite  of  three  assemblies  and  a  charity  ball  in 
the  winter,  the  occasional  advent  of  a  ventriloquist,  or  a 
company  of  itinerant  players,  some  of  whom  were  very  highly 
thought  of  in  London,  and  the  annual  three  days'  fair  in 
June,  Milby  might  be  considered  dull  by  people  of  a  hypochon- 
ilriacal  temperament ;  and  perhaps  this  was  one  reason  why 
many  of  the  middle  -  aged  inhabitants,  male  and  female, 


196  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LTFE. 

often  found  it  impossible  to  keep  up  their  spirits  without  a 
very  abundant  supply  of  stimulants.  It  is  true  there  were 
several  substantial  men  who  had  a  reputation  for  exceptional 
sobriety,  so  that  Milby  habits  were  really  not  as  bad  as  pos- 
sible ;  and  no  one  is  warranted  in  saying  that  old  Mr.  Crewe's 
flock  could  not  have  been  worse  without  any  clergyman  at 
all. 

The  well-dressed  parishioners  generally  were  very  regular 
church-goers,  and  to  the  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  the  Sunday  morning  service  was  the  most 
exciting  event  of  the  week ;  for  few  places  could  present  a 
more  brilliant  show  of  out-door  toilettes  than  might  be  seen 
issuing  from  Milby  church  at  one  o'clock.  There  were  the 
four  tall  Miss  Pittmans,  old  lawyer  Pittman's  daughters,  with 
cannon  curls  surmounted  by  large  hats,  and  long,  drooping 
ostrich  feathers  of  parrot  green.  There  was  Miss  Phipps, 
with  a  crimson  bonnet,  very  much  tilted  up  behind,  and  a 
cockade  of  stiff  feathers  on  the  summit.  There  was  Miss  Lan- 
dor,  the  belle  of  Milby,  clad  regally  in  purple  and  ermine,  with 
a  plume  of  feathers  neither  drooping  nor  erect,  but  maintaining 
a  discreet  medium.  There  were  the  three  Miss  Tomlinsons, 
who  imitated  Miss  Landor,  and  also  wore  ermine  and  feath- 
ers ;  but  their  beauty  was  considered  of  a  coarse  order,  and 
their  square  forms  were  quite  unsuited  to  the  round  tippet 
which  fell  with  such  remarkable  grace  on  Miss  Lander's  slop- 
ing shoulders.  Looking  at  this  plumed  procession  of  ladies, 
you  would  have  formed  rather  a  high  idea  of  Milby  wealth  ; 
yet  there  was  only  one  close  carriage  in  the  place,  and  that 
was  old  Mr.  Landor's,  the  banker,  who,  I  think,  never  drove 
more  than  one  horse.  These  sumptuously-attired  ladies  flash- 
ed past  the  vulgar  eye  in  one-horse. chaises,  by  no  means  of  a 
superior  build. 

The  young  gentlemen,  too,  were  not  without  their  little 
Sunday  displays  of  costume,  of  a  limited  masculine  kind.  Mr. 
Eustace  Landor,  being  nearly  of  age,  had  recently  acquired  a 
diamond  ring,  together  with  the  habit  of  rubbing  his  hand 
through  his  hair.  He  was  tall  and  dark,  and  thus  had  an 
advantage  which  Mr.  Alfred  Phipps,  who,  like  his  sister,  was 
blond  and  stumpy,  found  it  difficult  to  overtake,  even  by  the 
severest  attention  to  shirt-studs,  and  the  particular  shade  of 
brown  that  was  best  relieved  by  gilt  buttons. 

The  respect  for  the  Sabbath,  manifested  in  this  attention 
to  costume,  was  unhappily  counterbalanced  by  considerable 
levity  of  behavior  during  the  prayers  and  sermon ;  for  the 
young  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Milby  were  of  a  very  satirical 
turn,  Miss  Landor  especially  being  considered  remarkably 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  191 

clever,  and  a  terrible  quiz  ;  and  the  large  congregation  neces- 
sarily containing  many  persons  inferior  in  dress  and  demean- 
or to  the  distinguished  aristocratic  minority,  divine  service 
offered  irresistible  temptations  to  joking,  through  the  medium 
of  telegraphic  communications  from  the  galleries  to  the  aisles 
and  back  again.  I  remember  blushing  very  much,  and  think- 
ing Miss  Landor  Avas  laughing  at  me,  because  I  was  appear-, 
ing  in  coat-tails  for  the  first  time,  when  I  saw  her  look  down ' 
slyly  towards  where  I  sat,  and  then  turn  with  a  titter  to 
handsome  Mr.  Bob  Lowme,  who  had  such  beautiful  whiskers 
meeting  under  his  chin.  But  perhaps  she  was  not  thinking 
of  me,  after  all ;  for  our  pew  was  near  the  pulpit,  and  there 
was  almost  always  something  funny  about  old  Mr.  Crewe. 
His  brown  wig  was  hardly  ever  put  on  quite  right,  and  he 
had  a  way  of  raising  his  voice  for  three  or  four  words,  and 
lowering  it  again  to  a  mumble,  so  that  we  could  scarcely 
make  out  a  word  he  said ;  though,  as  my  mother  observed, 
that  was  of  no  consequence  in  the  prayer,  since  every  one  had 
a  prayer-book;  and  as  for  the  sermon,  she  continued  with 
some  causticity,  we  all  of  us  heard  more  of  it  than  we  could 
remember  when  we  got  home. 

This  youthful  generation  was  not  particularly  literary. 
The  young  ladies  who  frizzed  their  hair>  and  gathered  it  all 
into  large  barricades  in  front  of  their  heads,  leaving  their  oc- 
cipital region  exposed  without  ornament,  as  if  that,  being  a 
back  view,  was  of  no  consequence,  dreamed  as  little  that  their 
daughters  would  read  a  selection  of  German  poetry,  and  be 
able  to  express  an  admiration  for  Schiller,  as  that  they  would 
turn  all  their  hair  the  other  way — that  instead  of  threatening 
us  with  barricades  in  front,  they  would  be  most  killing  in  re- 
treat, 

"And,  like  the  Parthian,  wound  us  as  they  fly." 

Those  charming  well-frizzed  ladies  spoke  French  indeed  with 
considerable  facility,  unshackled  by  any  timid  regard  to  idiom, 
and  were  in  the  habit  of  conducting  conversations  in  that 
language  in  the  presence  of  their  less  instructed  elders ;  for 
according  to  the  standard  of  those  backward  days,  their  ed- 
ucation had  been  very  lavish,  such  young  ladies  as  Miss  Lan- 
dor, Miss  Phipps,  and  the  Miss  Pittmansjiaving  been  "  finish; 
e d-"-afe- distant  APjj^xpcnsive  schools. 

Old  lawyer  Pittman" "na~d  once  "been  a  very  important  per- 
son indeed,  having  in  his  earlier  days  managed  the  affairs  of 
several  gentlemen  in  those  parts,  who  had  subsequently  been 
obliged  to  sell  every  thing  and  leave  the  country,  in  which 
crisis  Mr.  Pittman  accomodatingly  stepped  in  as  a  purchaser 


198  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

of  their  estates,  taking  on  himself  the  risk  and  trouble  of  a 
more  leisurely  sale ;  which,  however,  happened  to  turn  out 
very  much  to  his  advantage.  Such  opportunities  occur  quite 
unexpectedly  in  the  way  of  business.  But  I  think  Mr.  Pitt- 
man  must  have  been  unlucky  in  his  later  speculations,  for 
now,  in  his  old  age,  he  had  not  the  reputation  of  being  very 
rich ;  and  though  he  rode  slowly  to  his  office  in  Milby  every 
morning  on  an  old  white  hackney,  he  had  to  resign  the  chief 
profits,  as  well  as  the  active  business  of  the  firm,  to  his  young- 
er partner,  Dempster.  No  one  in  Milby  considered  old  Pitt- 
man  a  virtuous  man,  and  the  elder  townspeople  were  not  at 
all  backward  in  narrating  the  least  advantageous  portions  of 
his  biography  in  a  very  round  unvarnished  manner.  Yet  I 
could  never  observe  that  they  trusted  him  any  the  less,  or 
liked  him  any  the  worse.  Indeed,  Pittman  and  Dempster 
were  the  popular  lawyers  of  Milby  and  its  neighborhood,  and 
Mr.  Benjamin  Landor,  whom  no  one  had  any  thing  particular 
to  say  against,  had  a  very  meagre  business  in  comparison. 
Hardly  a  landholder,  hardly  a  farmer,  hardly  a  pai'ish  within 
ten  miles  of  Milby,  whose  affairs  were  not  under  the  legal 
guardianship  of  Pittman  and  Dempster;  and  I  think  the 
clients  were  proud  of  their  lawyers'  unscrupulousness,  as  the 
patrons  of  the  fancy  are  proud  of  their  champion's  "  condi- 
tion." It  was  not,  to  be  sure,  the  thing  for  ordinary  life,  but 
it  was  the  thing  to  be  bet  on  in  a  lawyer.  Dempster's  talent 
in  "  bringing  through  "  a  client  was  a  very  common  topic  of 
conversation  with  the  farmers,  over  an  incidental  glass  of 
grog  at  the  Red  Lion.  "  He's  a  long-headed  feller,  Dempster ; 
why,  it  shows  yer  what  a  head-piece  Dempster  has,  as  he 
can  drink  a  bottle  o'  brandy  at  a  sittin',  an'  yit  see  further 
through  a  stone  wall  when  he's  done,  than  other  folks'll  see 
through  a  glass  winder."  Even  Mr.  Jerome,  chief  member 
of  the  congregation  at  Salem  Chapel,  an  elderly  man  of  very 
strict  life,  was  one  of  Dempster's  clients,  and  had  quite  an  ex- 
ceptional indulgence  for  his  attorney's  foibles,  perhaps  attrib- 
uting them  to  the  inevitable  incompatibility  of  law  and  gos- 
pel. 

The  standard  of  morality  at  Milby,  you  perceive,  was  not 
inconveniently  high  in  those  good  old  times,  and  an  ingen- 
uous vice  or  two  was  what  every  man  expected  of  his  neigh- 
bor. Old  Mr.  Crewe,  the  curate,  for  example,  was  allowed  to 
enjoy  his  avarice  in  comfort,  without  fear  of  sarcastic  parish 
demagogues ;  and  his  flock  liked  him  all  the  better  for  having 
scraped  together  a  large  fortune  out  of  his  school  and  curacy, 
and  the  proceeds  of  the  three  thousand  pounds  he  had  with 
his  little  deaf  wife.  It  was  clear  he  must  be  a  learned  man, 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  190 

for  he  had  once  had  a  large  private  school  in  connection  with 
the  grammar-school,  and  had  even  numbered  a  yourg  noble- 
man or  two  among  his  pupils.  The  fact  that  he  read  noth- 
ing at  all  now,  and  that  his  mind  seemed  absorbed  in  the 
commonest  matters,  was  doubtless  due  to  his  having  exhaust- 
ed the  resources  of  erudition  earlier  in  life.  It  is  truahe  was 
not  spoken  of  in  terms  of  high  respect,  and  old  Crewe  s  stingy 
housekeeping  was  a  frequent  subject  of  jesting;  but  this  was 
a  good  old-fashioned  characteristic  in  a  parson  who  had  been 
part  of  Milby  life  for  half  a  century :  it  was  like  the  dents  and 
disfigurements  in  an  old  family  tankard,  which  no  one  would 
like  to  part  with  for  a  smart  new  piece  of  plate  fresh  from 
Birmingham.  The  parishioners  saw  no  reason  at  all  why  it 
should  be  desirable  to  venerate  the  parson  or  any  one  else: 
they  were  much  more  comfortable  to  look  down  a  little  on 
their  fellow-creatures. 

Even  the  Dissent  in  Milby  was  then  of  a  lax  and  indiffer- 
ent kind.  The  doctrine  of  adult  baptism,  struggling  under 
a  heavy  load  of  debt,  had  let  off  half  its  chapel  area  as  a  rib- 
bon-shop ;  and  Methodism  was  only  to  be  detected,  as  you 
detect  curious  larvae,  by  diligent  search  in  dirty  corners. 
The  Independents  were  the  only  Dissenters  of  whose  exist- 
ence Milby  gentility  was  at  all  conscious,  and  it  had  a  vague 
idea  that  the  salient  points  of  their  creed  were  prayer  with- 
out book,  red  brick,  and  hypocrisy.  The  Independent  chapel, 
known  as  Salem,  stood  red  and  conspicuous  in  a  broad  street ; 
more  than  one  pew-holder  kept  a  brass-bound  gig ;  and  Mr. 
Jerome,  a  retired  corn-factor,  and  the  most  eminent  member 
of  the  congregation,  was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  parish. 
But  in  spite  of  this  apparent  prosperity,  together  with  the 
usual  amount  of  extemporaneous  preaching  mitigated  by  fur- 
tive notes,  Salem  belied  its  name,  and  was  not  always  the 
abode  of  peace.  For  some  reason  or  other,  it  was  unfortu- 
nate in  the  choice  of  its  ministers.  Tke__Rev.  Mr.  Horner, 
elected  with  brilliant  hopes,  was  discovered  to  be  given  to 
tippling  and  quarrelling  with  his  wife ;  the  Rev.  Mr.  Rose's 
doctrine  was  a  little  too  "  high,"  verging  on  antinomianism  ; 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Stickney's  gift  as  a  preacher  was  found  to  be 
less  striking  on  a  more  extended  acquaintance ;  and  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Smith,  a  distinguished  minister  much  sought  after  in  the 
iron  districts,  with  a  talent  for  poetry,  became  objectionable 
from  an  inclination  to  exchange  verses  with  the  young  ladies 
of  his  congregation.  It  was  reasonably  argued  that  such 
verses  as  Mr.  Smith's  must  take  a  long  time  for  their  compo- 
sition, and  the  habit  alluded  to  might  intrench  seriously  on 
his  pastoral  duties.  These  reverend  gentlemen,  one  and  all, 


SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

gave  it  as  their  opinion  that  the  Salem  church  members  were 
among  the  least  enlightened  of  the  Lord's  people,  and  that 
Milby  was  a  low  place,  where  they  would  have  found  it  a 
severe  lot  to  have  their  lines  fall  for  any  long  period ;  though 
to  see  the  smart  and  crowded  congregation  assembled  on  oc- 
casion of  the  annual  charity  sermon,  any  one  might  have  sup- 
posed tnat  the  minister  of  Salem  had  rather  a  brilliant  posi- 
tion in  the  ranks  of  Dissent.  Several  Church  families  used  to 
attend  on  that  occasion,  for  Milby,  in  those  uninstructed  days, 
had  not  yet  heard  that  the  schismatic  ministers  of  Salem  were 
obviously  typified  by  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram;  and  many 
Church  people  there  were  of  opinion  that  Dissent  might  be 
a  weakness,  but,  after  all,  had  no  great  harm  in  it.  These  lax 
Episcopalians  were,  I  believe,  chiefly  tradespeople,  who  held 
that,  inasmuch  as  Congregationalism  consumed  candles,  it 
ought  to  be  supported,  and  accordingly  made  a  point  of  pre- 
senting themselves  at  Salem  for  the  afternoon  charity  ser- 
mon, with  the  expectation  of  being  asked  to  hold  a  plate. 
Mr.  Pilgrim,  too,  was  always  there  with  his  half-sovereign ; 
for  as  there  was  no  Dissenting  doctor  in  Milby,  Mr.  Pilgrim 
looked  with  great  tolerance  on  all  shades  of  religious  opinion 
that  did  not  include  a  belief  in  cures  by  miracle. 

On  this  point  he  had  the  concurrence  of  Mr.  Pratt,  the 
only  other  medical  man  of  the  same  standing  in  Milby. 
Otherwise,  it  was  remarkable  how  strongly  these  two  clever 
men  were  contrasted.  Pratt  was  middle-sized,  insinuating. 
and  silvery-voiced ;  Pilgrim  was  tall,  heavy,  rough-mannered, 
and  spluttering.  Both  were  considered  to  have  great  pow- 
ers of  conversation,  but  Pratt's  anecdotes  were  of  the  fine 
old  crusted  quality  to  be  procured  only  of  Joe  Miller ;  Pil- 
grim's had  the  full  fruity  flavor  of  the  most  recent  scandal. 
Pratt  elegantly  referred  all  diseases  to  debility,  and,  with  a 
proper  contempt  for  symptomatic  treatment,  went  to  the 
root  of  the  matter  with  port-wine  and  bark;  Pilgrim  was 
persuaded  that  the  evil  principle  in  the  human  system  was 
plethora,  and  he  made  war  against  it  with  cupping,  blistering, 
and  cathartics.  They  had  both  been  long  established  in  Mil- 
by,  and  as  each  had  a  sufficient  practice,  there  was  no  very 
malignant  rivalry  between  them  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  had 
that  sort  of  friendly  contempt  for  each  other  which  is  always 
conducive  to  a  good  understanding  between  professional 
men ;  and  when  any  new  surgeon  attempted,  in  an  ill-advised 
hour,  to  settle  himself  in  the  town,  it  was  strikingly  demon- 
strated how  slight  and  trivial  are  theoretic  differences  com- 
pared with  the  broad  basis  of  common  human  feeling.  There 
was  the  most  perfect  unanimity  between  Pratt  and  Pilgrim 


JANET'S   REPENTANCE.  201 

in  the  determination  to  drive  away  the  obnoxious  and  too 
probably  unqualified  intruder  as  soon  as  possible.  Wheth- 
er the  first  wonderful  cure  he  effected  was  on  a  patient  of 
Pratt's  or  of  Pilgrim's,  one  was  as  ready  as  the  other  to  pull 
the  interloper  by  the  nose,  and  both  alike  directed  their  re- 
markable powers  of  conversation  towards  making  the  town 
too  hot  for  him.  But  by  their  respective  patients  these  two 
distinguished  men  were  pitted  against  each  other  with  great 
virulence.  Mrs.  Lowme  could  not  conceal  her  amazement 
that  Mrs.  Phipps  should  trust  her  life  in  the  hands  of  Pratt, 
who  let  her  feed  herself  up  to  that  degree,  it  was  really  shock- 
ing to  hear  how  short  her  breath  was;  and  Mrs.  Phipps  had 
no  patience  with  Mrs.  Lowme,  living,  as  she  did,  on  tea  and 
broth,  and  looking  as,  yellow  as  any  crow-flower,  and  yet  let- 
ting Pilgrim  bleed  and  blister  her  and  give  her  lowering 
medicine  till  her  clothes  hung  on  her  like  a  scarecrow's.  On 
the  whole,  perhaps,  Mr.  Pilgrim's  reputation  was  at  the  high- 
er pitch,,  and  when  any  lady  under  Mr.  Pratt's  care  was  doing 
ill,  she  was  half  disposed  to  think  that  a  little  more  "  active 
treatment"  might  suit  her  better.  But  without  very  definite 
provocation  no  one  would  take  BO  serious  a  step  as  to  pait 
with  the  family  doctor,  for  in  those  remote  days  there  were 
few  varieties  of  human  hatred  more  formidable  than  the  med- 
ical. The  doctor's  estimate,  even  ot  a  confiding  patient,  was 
apt  to  rise  and  fall  with  the  entries  in  the  day-book ;  and  I 
have  known  Mr.  Pilgrim  discover  the  most  unexpected  vir- 
tues in  a  patient  seized  with  a  promising  illness.  At  such 
times  you  might  have  been  glad  to  perceive  that  there  were 
some  of  Mr.  Pilgrim's  fellow-creatures  of  whom  he  entertain- 
ed a  high  opinion,  and  that  he  was  liable  to  the  amiable 
weakness  of  a  too  admiring  estimate.  A  good  inflammation 
fired  his  enthusiasm,  and  a  lingering  dropsy  dissolved  him 
into  charity.  Doubtless  this  crescendo  of  benevolence  was 
partly  due  to  feelings  not  at  all  represented  by  the  entries  in 
the  day-book  ;  for  in  Mr.  Pilgrim's  heart,  too,  there  was  a  la- 
tent store  of  tenderness  and  pity  which  flowed  forth  at  the 
sight  of  suffering.  Gradually,  however,  as  his  patients  be- 
came convalescent,  his  view  of  their  characters  became  more 
dispassionate ;  when  they  could  relish  mutton-chops,  he  be- 
gan to  admit  that  they  had  foibles,  and  by  the  time  they  had 
swallowed  their  last  dose  of  tonic,  he  was  alive  to  their  most 
inexcusable  faults.  After  this,  the  thermometer  of  his  regard 
rested  at  the  moderate  point  of  friendly  backbiting,  which 
sufficed  to  make  him  agreeable  in  his  morning  visits  to  the 
amiable  and  worthy  persons  who  were  yet  far  from  convales- 
cent. 

9* 


202  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Pratt's  patients  were  profoundly  uninteresting  to  Pilgrim ; 
their  very  diseases  were  despicable,  and  he  would  hardly 
have  thought  their  bodies  worth  dissecting.  But  of  all 
Pratt's  patients,  Mr.  Jerome  was  the  one  on  whom  Mr.  Pil- 
grim heaped  the  most  unmitigated  contempt.  In  spite  of  the 
surgeon's  wise  tolerance,  Dissent  became  odious  to  him  in  the 
person  of  Mr.  Jerome.  Perhaps  it  was  because  that  old  gen- 
tleman, being  rich,  and  having  very  large  yearly  bills  for 
medical  attendance  on  himself  and  his  wife,  nevertheless  em- 
ployed Pratt — neglected  all  the  advantages  of"  active  treat- 
ment," and  paid  away  his  money  without  getting  his  system 
lowered.  On  any  other  ground  it  is  hard  to  explain  a  feeling 
of  hostility  to  Mr.  Jerome,  who  was  an  excellent  old  gentle- 
man, expressing  a  great  deal  of  good-will  towards  his  neigh- 
bors, not  only  in  imperfect  English,  but  in  loans  of  money  to 
the  ostensibly  rich,  and  in  sacks  of  potatoes  to  the  obviously 
poor. 

Assuredly  Milby  had  that  salt  of  goodness  which  keeps 
the  world  together,  in  greater  abundance  than  was  visible  on 
the  surface ;  innocent  babes  were  born  there,  sweetening  their 
parents'  hearts  with  simple  joys;  men  and  women  withering 
in  disappointed  worldliness,  or  bloated  with  sensual  ease,  had 
better  moments  in  which  they  pressed  the  hand  of  suffering 
with  sympathy,  and  were  moved  to  deeds  of  neighborly  kind- 
ness. In  church  and  in  chapel  there  were  honest-hearted 
worshippers  who  strove  to  keep  a  conscience  void  of  offense ; 
and  even  up  the  dimmest  alleys  you  might  have  found  here 
and  there  a  Wesleyan  to  whom  Methodism  was  the  vehicle 
of  peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  men.  To  a  superficial 
glance,  Milby  was  nothing  but  dreary  prose  ;  a  dingy  town, 
surrounded  by  flat  fields,  lopped  elms,  and  sprawling  manu- 
facturing villages,  which  crept  on  and  on  with  their  weaving- 
shops,  till  they  threatened  to  graft  themselves  on  the  town. 
But  the  sweet  spring  came  to  Milby  notwithstanding :  the 
elm-tops  were  red  with  buds ;  the  churchyard  was  starred 
with  daisies ;  the  lark  showered  his  love-music  on  the  flat- 
fields;  the  rainbows  hung  over  the  dingy  town,  clothing  the 
very  roofs  and  chimneys  in  a  strange  transfiguring  beauty. 
And  so  it  was  with  the  human  life  there,  which  at  first  seem- 
ed a  dismal  mixture  of  griping  worldliness,  vanity,  ostrich 
feathers,  and  the  fumes  of  brandy  ,•  looking  closer,  you  found 
some  purity,  gentleness,  and  unselfishness,  as  you  may  have 
observed  a  scented  geranium  giving  forth  its  wholesome  odors 
amidst  blasphemy  and  gin  in  a  noisy  pot-house.  Little  deaf 
Mrs.  Crewe  would  often  carry  half  her  own  spare  dinner  to 
the  sick  and  hungry ;  Miss  Phipps,  with  her  cockade  of  red 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  203 

feathers,  had  a  filial  heart,  and  lighted  her  father's  pipe  with 
a  pleasant  smile ;  and  there  were  gray-haired  men  in  drab 
gaiters,  not  at  all  noticeable  as  you  passed  them  in  the  street, 
whose  integrity  had  been  the  basis  of  their  rich  neighbor's 
wealth. 

Such  as  the  place  was,  the  people  there  were  entirely  con- 
tented with  it.  They  fancied  life  must  be  but  a  dull  affair 
for  that  large  portion  of  mankind  who  were  necessarily  shut 
out  from  an  acquaintance  with  Milby  families,  and  that  it 
must  be  an  advantage  to  London  and  Liverpool  that  Milby 
gentlemen  occasionally  visited  those  places  on  business.  But 
the  inhabitants  became  more  intensely  conscious  of  the  value 
they  set  upon  all  their  advantages,  when  innovation  made  its 
appearance  in  the  person  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Tryan,  the  new  cu- 
rate, at  the  chapel-of-ease  on  Paddiford  Common.  It  was 
soon  notorious  in  Milby  that  Mr.  Tryan  held  peculiar  opin- 
ions ;  that  he  preached  extempore  ;  that  he  was  founding  a 
religious  lending-library  in  his  remote  corner  of  the  parish ; 
that  he  expounded  the  Scriptures  in  cottages ;  and  that  his 
preaching  Mras  attracting  the  Dissenters,  and  filling  the  very 
aisles  of  his  church.  The  rumor  sprang  up  that  Evangelical- 
ism had  invaded  Milby  parish — a  murrain  or  blight  all  the 
more  terrible,  because  its  nature  was  but  dimly  conjectured. 
Perhaps  Milby  was  one  of  the  last  spots  to  be  reached  by  the 
wave  of  a  new  movement ;  and  it  was  only  now,  when  the 
tide  was  just  on  the  turn,  that  the  limpets  there  got  a  sprink- 
ling. Mr.  Tryan  was  the  first  Evangelical  clergyman  who 
had  risen  above  the  Milby  horizon :  hitherto  that  obnoxious 
adjective  had  been  unknown  to  the  townspeople  of  any  gen- 
tility ;  and  there  were  even  many  Dissenters  who  considered 
"  evangelical "  simply  a  sort  of  baptismal  name  to  the  maga- 
zine which  circulated  among  the  congregation  of  Salem  Chap- 
el. But  now,  at  length,  the  disease  had  been  imported,  when 
the  parishioners  were  expecting  it  as  little  as  the  innocent 
Red  Indians  expected  small-pox.  As  long  as  Mr.  Tryan's 
hearers  were  confined  to  Paddiford  Common — which,  by-the- 
by,  was  hardly  recognizable  as  a  common  at  all,  but  was  a 
dismal  district  where  you  heard  the  rattle  of  the  handloom, 
and  breathed  the  smoke  of  coal-pits — the  "  canting  parson  " 
could  be  treated  as  a  joke.  Not  so  when  a  number  of  single 
ladies  in  the  town  appeared  to  be  infected,  and  even  one  or 
two  men  of  substantial  property,  with  old  Mr.  Landor,  the 
banker,  at  their  head,  seemed  to  be  "  giving  in  "  to  the  new 
movement — when  Mr.  Tryan  was  known  to  be  well  received 
in  several  good  houses,  where  he  was  in  the  habit  of  finishing 
the  evening  with  exhortation  and  prayer.  Evangelicalism 


204  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

was  no  longer  a  nuisance  existing  merely  in  by-corners,  which 
any  well-clad  person  could  avoid;  it  was  invading  the  very 
drawing-rooms,  mingling  itself  with  the  comfortable  fumes  of 
port-wine  and  brandy,  threatening  to  deaden  with  its  murky 
breath  all  the  splendor  of  the  ostrich  feathers,  and  to  stifle 
Milby  ingenuousness,  not  pretending  to  be  better  than  its 
neighbors,  with  a  cloud  of  cant  and  lugubrious  hypocrisy. 
The  alarm  reached  its  climax  when  it  was  reported  that  Mr. 
Tryan  was  endeavoring  to  obtain  authority  from  Mr.  Pren- 
dergast,  the  non-resident  rector,  to  establish  a  Sunday  even- 
ing lecture  in  the  parish  church,  on  the  ground  that  old  Mr. 
Crewe  did  not  preach  the  Gospel. 

It  now  first  appeared  how  surprisingly  high  a  value  Milby 
in  general  set  on  the  ministrations  of  Mr.  Crewe ;  how  con- 
vinced it  was  that  Mr.  Crewe  was  the  model  of  a  parish  priest, 
and  his  sermons  the  soundest  and  most  edifying  that  had  ever 
remained  unheard  by  a  church-going  population.  All  allusions 
to  his  brown  wig  were  suppressed,  and  by  a  rhetorical  figure 
his  name  was  associated  with  venerable  gray  hairs ;  the  at- 
tempted intrusion  of  Mr.  Tryan  was  an  insult  to  a  man  deep 
in  years  and  learning ;  moreover,  it  was  an  insolent  effort  to 
thrust  himself  forward  in  a  parish  where  he  was  clearly  dis- 
tasteful to  the  superior  portion  of  its  inhabitants.  The  town 
was  divided  into  two  zealous  parties,  the  Tryanites  and  anti- 
Tryanites ;  and  by  the  exertions  of  the  eloquent  Dempster, 
the  anti-Tryanite  virulence  was  soon  developed  into  an  or- 
ganized opposition.  A  protest  against  the  meditated  evening 
lecture  was  framed  by  that  orthodox  attorney,  and,  after  be- 
ing numerously  signed,  was  to  be  carried  to  Mr.  Prendergast 
fcy  three  delegates  representing  the  intellect,  morality,  and 
wealth  of  Milby.  The  intellect,  you  perceive,  was  to  be  per- 
sonified in  Mr.  Dempster,  the  morality  in  Mr.  Budd,  and  the 
wealth  in  Mr.  Tomlinson  ;  and  the  distinguished  triad  was  to 
set  out  on  its  great  mission,  as  we  have  seen,  on  the  third  day 
from  that  warm  Saturday  evening  when  the  conversation  re- 
corded in  the  previous  chapter  took  place  in  the  bar  of  the 
Red  Lion. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

IT  was  quite  as  warm  on  the  following  Thursday  evening, 
when  Mr.  Dempster  and  his  colleagues  were  to  return  from 
their  mission  to  Elmstoke  Rectory ;  but  it  was  much  pleas- 
anter  in  Mrs.  Linnet's  parlor  than  in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lioa 


JANET'S   REPENTANCE.  205 

Through  the  open  window  came  the  scent  of  mignonnette  and 
honeysuckle  ;  the  grass-plot  in  front  of  the  house  was  shaded 
by  a  little  plantation  of  Gueldres  roses,  syringas,  and  labur- 
nums ;  the  noise  of  looms  and  carts  and  unmelodious  voices 
reached  the  ear  simply  as  an  agreeable  murmur,  for  Mrs.  Lin- 
net's house  was  situated  quite  on  the  outskirts  of  P,addiford 
Common;  njid  the  only  sound  likely  to  disturb  the  serenity 
<i£jj*«r'feminine  party  assembled  there,  was  the  occasional 
buzz  of  intrusive  wasps,  apparently  mistaking  each  lady's 
head  for  a  sugar-basin.  No  sugar-basin  was  visible  in  Mrs. 
Linnet's  parlor,  for  the  time  of  tea  was  not  yet,  and  the  round 
table  was  littered  with  books  which  the  ladies  were  covering 
with  black  canvas  as  a  reinforcement  of  the  new  Paddiford 
Lending  Library.  Miss  Linnet,  whose  manuscript  was  the  neat- 
est type  of  zigzag,  was  seated  at  a  small  table  apart,  writing 
on  green  paper  tickets,  which  were  to  be  pasted  on  the  covers. 
Miss  Linnet  had  other  accomplishments  besides  that  of  a  neat 
manuscript,  and  an  index  to  some  of  them  might  be  found  in 
the  orna'ments  of  the  room.  She  had  always  combijied  a  love 
of  serious  and  poetical  reading  with  her  skill  in  fancy-work, 
and  the  neatly-bound  copies  of  Dryden's  "Virgil,"  Hannah 
More's  "  Sacred  Dramas,"  Falconer's  " Shipwreck,"  Mason  "  On 
Self-Knowledge,""Rasselas,"and  Burke  "On  the  Sublime  and 
Beautiful,"  which  were  the  chief  ornaments  of  the  bookcase, 
were  all  inscribed  with  her  name,  and  had  been  bought  with 
her  pocket-money  when  she  was  in  her  teens.  It  must  have 
been  at  least  fifteen  years  since  the  latest  of  those  purchases, 
but  Miss  Linnet's  skill  in  fancy-work  appeared  to  have  gone 
through  more  numerous  phases  than  her  literary  taste ;  for 
the  japanned  boxes,  the  alum  and  sealing-wax  baskets,  the 
fan-dolls,  the  "  transferred  "  landscapes  on  the  fire-screens, 
and  the  recent  bouquets  of  wax-flowers,  showed  a  disparity 
in  freshness  which  made  them  referable  to  widely  different 
periods.  Wax-flowers  presuppose  delicate  fingers  and  robust 
patience,  but  there  are  still  many  points  of  mind  and  person 
which  they  leave  vague  and  problematic ;  so  I  must  tell  you 
that  Miss  Linnet  had  dark  ringlets,  a  sallow  complexion,  and 
an  amiable  disposition.  As  to  her  features,  there  was  not 
much  to  criticise  in  them,  for  she  had  little  nose,  less  lip,  and 
no  eyebrow ;  and  as  to  her  intellect,  her  friend  Mrs.  Pettifer 
often  said, "  She  didn't  know  a  more  sensible  person  to  talk 
to  than  Mary  Linnet.  There  was  no  one  she  liked  better  to 
come  and  take  a  quiet  cup  of  tea  with  her,  and  read  a  little 
of  Klopstock's  '  Messiah.'  Mary  Linnet  had  often  told  her  a 
great  deal  of  her  mind  when  they  wei'e  sitting  together;  she 
aaid  there  were  many  things  to  bear  in  every  condition  of 


206        .  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

life,  and  nothing  should  induce  her  to  marry  without  a  pros- 
pect of  happiness.  Once,  when  Mrs.  Pettifer  admired  her 
wax-flowers,  she  said,  '  Ah,  Mrs.  Pettifer,  think  of  the  bean- 
ties  of  nature  !'  She  always  spoke  very  prettily,  did  Mary 
Linnet ;  very  different,  indeed,  from  Rebecca." 

Miss  Rebecca  Linnet,  indeed,  was  not  a  general  favorite. 
W>iMo  moflt  pf"TlA  flm"ght  it  a  p^y  that  a.sfinsibl£  woman 
like  Mary  had  not  found  a  good  husband — and  even  her  fe- 
male friends  said  nothing  more  ill-natured  of  her  than  that 
her  face  was  like  a  piece  of  putty  with  two  Scotch  pebbles 
stuck  in  it — Rebecca  was  always  spoken  of  sarcastically,  and 
it  wajTaTSuslomary  kind  of  banter  with  young  ladies  to  recom- 
mend her  as  a  wife  to  any  gentleman  they  happened  to  be 
flirting  with — her  fat,  her  finery,  and  her  thick  ankles  suffic- 
ing to  give  piquancy  to  the  joke,  notwithstanding  the  ab- 
sence of  novelty.  Miss  Rebecca,  however,  possessed  the  ac- 
complishment of  music,  and  her  singing  of  "  Oh  no,  we  never 
mention  her,"  and  "  The  Soldier's  Tear,"  was  so  desirable  an 
accession  io  the  pleasures  of  a  tea-party  that  no  one  cared  to 
offend  her,  especially  as  Rebecca  had  a  high  spirit  of  her  own, 
and,  in  spite  of  her  expansively  rounded  contour,  had  a  par- 
ticularly sharp  tongue.  Her  reading  had  been  more  exten- 
sive than  her  sister's,  embracing  most  of  the  fiction  in  Mr. 
Procter's  circulating  library,  and  nothing  but  an  acquaintance 
with  the  course  of  her  studies  could  afford  a  clue  to  the  i*ap- 
id  transitions  in  her  dress,  which  were  suggested  by  the  style 
of  beauty,  whether  sentimental,  sprightly,  or  severe,  possess- 
ed by  the  heroine  of  the  three  volumes  actually  in  perusal. 
A  piece  of  lace,  which  drooped  round  the  edge  of  her  white 
bonnet  one  week,  had  been  rejected  by  the  next ;  and  her 
cheeks,  which,  on  Whitsunday,  loomed  through  a  Turnerian 
haze  of  network,  were,  on  Trinity  Sunday,  seen  reposing  in 
distinct  red  outline  on  her  shelving  bust,  like  the  sun  on  a 
fog-bank.  The  black  velvet,  meeting  with  a  crystal  clasp, 
which  one  evening  encircled  her  head,  had  on  another  de- 
scended to  her  neck,  and  on  a  third  to  her  wrist,  suggesting 
to  an  active  imagination  either  a  magical  contraction  of  the 
ornament,  or  a  fearful  ratio  of  expansion  in  Miss  Rebecca's 
person.  With  this  constant  application  of  art  to  dress,  she 
could  have  had  little  time  for  fancy-work,  even  if  she  had  not 
been  destitute  of  her  sister's  taste  for  that  delightful  and 
truly  feminine  occupation.  And  here,  at  least,  you  perceive 
the  justice  of  the  Milby  opinion  as  to  the  relative  suitability 
of  the  two  Miss  Linnets  for  matrimony.  When  a  man  is 
happy  enough  to  win  the  affections  of  a  sweet  girl,  who  can 
boothe  his  cares  with  crochet,  and  respond  to  all  his  most 


JANET'S  UEPENTANCE.  207 

cherished  ideas  with  beaded  urn-rugs  and  chair-covers  in 
German  wool,  he  has,  at  least,  a  guaranty  of  domestic  com- 
fort, whatever  trials  may  await  him  out  of  doors.  What  a 
resource  it  is  under  fatigue  and  irritation  to  have  your  draw- 
ing-room, well  supplied  with  small  mats,  which  would  always 
be  ready  if  you  ever  wanted  to  set  any  thing  on  them  !  And 
what  styptic  for  a  bleeding  heart  can  equal  copious  squares 
of  crochet,  which  are  useful  for  slipping  down  the  moment 
you  touch  them  ?  How  our  fathers  managed  without  crochet 
is  the  wonder ;  but  I  believe  some  small  and  feeble  substitute 
existed  in  their  time  under  the  name  of  "  tatting."  Rebecca 
Linnet,  however,  had  neglected  tatting  as  well  as  other  forms 
of  fancy-work.  At  school,  to  be  sure,  she  had  spent  a  great 
deal  of  time  in  acquiring  flower-painting,  according  to  the  in- 
genious method  then  fashionable,  of  applying  the  shapes  of 
leaves  and  flowers  cut  out  in  cardboard,  and  scrubbing  a 
brush  over  the  surface  thus  conveniently  marked  out;  but 
even  the  <  spill-cases  and  hand-screens,  which  were  her  last 
half-year's  performances  in  that  way,  were  not  considered 
eminently  successful,  and  had  long  been  consigned  to  the  re- 
tirement of  the  best  bed-room.  Thus  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  family  unlikeness  between  Rebecca  and  her  sister,  and  I 
am  afraid  there  was  also  a  little  family  dislike ;  but  Mary's 
disapproval_had_usually  been  kept  imprisoned  behind  her  thin 
lips,  for  Rebecca  wHs~»ot  only-of^'KeacIstrong  disposition, 
but  was  her  mother's  }>et  ;  the  old  lady  being  herself  stout, 
and  preferring.^  moro  showy  style_of_cap  than  she  could  pre- 
vail on  her  daughter  Mary  to  make  up  for  her. 

But  I  have  beerr  describing  Miss  Rebecca  as  she  w.as  in 
former  days  only,  for  her  appearance  this  evening,  as  she  sits 
pasting  on  the  green  tickets,  is  in  striking  contrast  with  what 
it  was  three  or  four  months  ago.  Her  plain  gray  gingham 
dress  and  plain  white  collar  could  never  have  belonged  to 
her  wardrobe  before  that  date;  and  though  she  is  not  re- 
duced in  size,  and  her  brown  hair  will  do  nothing  but  hang  in 
crisp  ringlets  down  her  large  cheeks,  there  is  a  change  in  her 
air  and  expression  which  seems  to  shed  a  softened  light  over 
her  person,  and  make  her  look  like  a  peony  in  the  shade,  in- 
stead of  the  same  flower  flaunting  in  a  parterre  in  the  hot 
sunlight. 

No  one  could  deny  that  Evangelicalism  had  wrought  a 
change  for  the  better  in  Rebecca  Linnet's  person — not  even 
Miss  Pratt,  the  thin  stiff  lady  in  spectacles,  seated  opposite  to 
her,  who  always  had  a  peculiar  repulsion  for  "  females  with 
a  gross  habit  of  body."  Miss  Pratt  was  an  old  maid ;  but 
that  is  a  no  more  definite  description  than  if  I  had  said  she 


208  SCENES    OF   CLEEICAL   LIFE. 

was  in  the  autumn  of  life.  Was  it  autumn  when  the  orchards 
are  fragrant  with  apples,  or  autumn  when  the  oaks  are  brown, 
or  autumn  when  the  last  yellow  leaves  are  fluttering  in  tho 
chill  breeze  ?  The  young  ladies  in  Milby  would  have  told  you 
that  'the  Miss  Linnets  were  old  maids ;  but  the  Miss  Linnets 
were  to  Miss  Pratt  what  the  apple-scented  September  is  to 
the  bare,  nipping  days  of  late  November.  The  Miss  Linnets 
were  in  that  temperate  zone  of  old  maidism,  w-hen^a  woman 
will  not  say  but  that  if  a  man  of  suitable  years  and  character 
were  to  offer  himself,  she  might  be  induced  to  tread  the  re- 
mainder of  life's  vale  in  company  with  him;  Miss  Pratt  was 
in  that  arctic  region  where  a  woman  is  confident  that  at  no 
time  of  life  would  she  have  consented  to  give  up  her  liberty, 
and  that  she  has  never  seen  the  man  whom  she  would  engage 
to  honor  aiid  obejr.  If  the  Miss  Linnets  were  old  maids,  they 
were  old  maids  with  natural  ringlets  and  embonpoint,  not  to 
say  obesity ;  Miss  Pratt  was  an  old  maid  with  a  cap,  a  braid- 
ed "  front,"  a  backbone  and  appendages.  Miss  Pratt  was  the 
one  blue-stocking  of  Milby,  possessing,  she  said,  no  less  than 
five  hundred  volumes,  competent,  as  her  brother  the  doctor 
often  observed,  to  conduct  a  conversation  on  any  topic  what- 
ever, and  occasionally  dabbling  a  little  in  authorship,  though 
it  was  understood  that  she  had  never  put  forth  the  full  pow- 
ers of  her  mind  in  print.  Her  "  Letters  to  a  Young  Man  on 
his  Entrance  into  Life,"  and  "  De  Courcy,  or  the  Rash  Promise, 
a  Tale  for  Youth,"  were  mere  trifles  which  she  had  been  in- 
duced to  publish  because  they  were  calculated  for  popular 
utility,  but  they  were  nothing  to  what  she  had  for  years  had 
by  her  in  manuscript.  Her  latest  production  had  been  Six 
Stanzas,  addressed  to  the  Rev.  Edgar  Tryan,  printed  on 
glazed  paper  with  a  neat  border,  and  beginning,  "Forward, 
young  wrestler  for  the  truth !" 

Miss  Pratt  having  kept  her  brother's  house  during  his 
long  widowhood,  his  daughter,  Miss  Eliza,  had  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  educated  by  her  aunt,  and  thus  of  imbibing 
a  very  strong  antipathy  to  all  that  remarkable  woman's 
tastes  and  opinions.  The  silent,  handsome  girl  of  two-and- 
twenty,  who  is  covering  the  "  Memoirs  of  Felix  Neff,"  is  Miss 
Eliza  Pratt ;  and  the  small  elderly  lady  in  dowdy  clothing, 
who  is  also  working  diligently,  is  Mrs.  Pettifer,  a  superior- 
minded  widow,  much  valued  in  Milby,  being  such  a  very  re- 
spectable person  to  have  in  the  house  in  case  of  illness,  and 
of  quite  too  good  a  family  to  receive  any  money-payment — 
you  could  always  send  her  garden-stuff  that  would  make  her 
ample  amends.  Miss  Pratt  has  enough  to  do  in  commenting 
on  the  heap  of  volumes  before  her,  feeling  it  a  responsibility 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  209 

entailed  on  her  by  her  great  powers  of  mind  to  leave  nothing 
without  the  advantage  of  her  opinion.  Whatever  was  good 
must  be  sprinkled  with  the  chrism  of  her  approval ;  whatever 
was  evil  must  be  blighted  by  her  condemnation. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  she  said,  in  a  deliberate  high  voice,  as 
if  she  were  dictating  to  an  amanuensis,  "  it  is  a  most  admira- 
ble selection  of  works  for  popular  reading,  this  that  our  ex- 
cellent Mr.  Tryan  has  made.  I  do  not  know  whether,  if  the 
task  had  been  confided  to  me,  I  could  have  made  a  selection 
combining  in  a  higher  degree  religious  instruction  and  edifi- 
cation with  a  due  admixture  of  the  purer  species  of  amuse- 
ment. This  story  of  '  Father  Clement '  is  a  library  in  it- 
self on  the  errors  of  Romanism.  I  have  ever  considered  fic- 
tion a  suitable  form  for  conveying  moral  and  religious  instruc- 
tion, as  I  have  shown  in  my  little  work  '  De  Courcy,'  which, 
as  a  very  clever  writer  in  the  '  Crompton  Argus '  said  at  the 
time  of 'its  appearance,  is  the  light  vehicle  of  a  weighty 
moraV 

"  One'  'ud  think,"  said  Mrs.  Linnet,  who  also  had  her  spec- 
tacles on,  but  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  what  the  others 
were  doing,  "  there  didn't  want  much  to  drive  people  away 
from  a  religion  as  makes  'em  walk  barefoot  over  stone  floors, 
like  that  girl  in  '  Father  Clement' — sending  the  blood  up  to 
the  head  frightful.  Any  body  might  see  that  was  an  unnat'ral 
creed." 

u  Yes,"  said  Miss  Pratt,  "  but  asceticism  is  not  the  root  of 
the  error,  as  Mr.  Tryan  was  telling  us  the  other  evening — it 
is  the  denial  of  the  great  doctrine  of  justification  by  faith. 
Much  as  I  had  reflected  on  all  subject8^in_the  course  of  my 
life,  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Tryan  for  opening  my  eyes  to  the 
full  importance  of  that  cardinal  doctnn^af^thejReformation. 
From  a  child  I  h:v<l  a  deep  sense  of  religion,  but  in  my  early 
days  the  Gospel  light  was  obscured  in  the  English  Church,  not- 
Avithstanding  the  possession  of  our  incomparable  liturgy,  than 
which  I  know  no  human  composition  more  faultless  and  sub- 
lime. As  I  tell  Eliza,  I  wras  not  blest  as  she  is  at  the  age 
of  two-and-twenty,  in  knowing  a  clergyman  who  unites  all 
that  is  great  and  admirable  in  intellect  with  the  highest  spir- 
itual gifts.  I  am  no  contemptible  judge  of  a  man's  acquire- 
ments, and  I  assure  you  I  have  tested  Mr.  Tryan's  by  ques- 
tions wrhich  are  a  pretty  severe  touchstone.  It  is  true,  I  some- 
times carry  him  a  little  beyond  the  depth  of  the  other  listen- 
ers. Profound  learning,"  continued  Miss  Pratt,  shutting  her 
spectacles,  and  tapping  them  on  the  book  before  her, "  has  not 
many  to  estimate  it  in  Milby." 

"  Miss  Pratt,"  said  Rebecca,  "  will  you  please  give  me 


SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

•  Scott's  Force  of  Truth  ?'  There— that  small  book  lying 
against  the  '  Life  of  Legh  Richmond.'  " 

"  That's  a  book  I'm  very  fond  of— the  *  Life  of  Legh  Rich- 
mond,' "  said  Mrs.  Linnet.  "  He  found  out  all  about  that  wom- 
an at  Tutbury  as  pretended  to  live  without  eating.  Stuff 
and  nonsense !" 

Mrs.  Linnet  had  become  a  reader  of  religious  books  since 
Mr.  Tryan's  advent,  and  as  she  was  in  the  habit  of  confining 
her  perusal  to  the  purely  secular  portions,  which  bore  a  very 
small  proportion  to  the  whole,  she  could  make  rapid  progress 
through  a  large  number  of  volumes.  On  taking  up  the  biog- 
raphy of  a  celebrated  preacher  she  immediately  turned  to  the 
end  to  see  what  disease  he  died  of;  and  if  his  legs  swelled, 
as  her  own  occasionally  did,  she  felt  a  stronger  interest  in 
ascertaining  any  earlier  facts  in  the  history  of  the  dropsical 
divine — whether  he  had  ever  fallen  off  a  stage-coach,  whether 
he  had  married  more  than  one  wife,  and,  in  general,  any  ad- 
ventures or  repartees  recorded  of  him  previous  to  the  epoch 
of  his  conversion.  She  then  glanced  over  the  letters  and 
diary,  and  wherever  there  was  a  predominance  of  Zion,  the 
River  of  Life,  and  notes  of  exclamation,  she  turned  over  to 
the  next  page  ;  but  any  passage  in  which  she  saw  such  prom- 
ising nouns  as  "  small-pox,"  "  pony,"  or  "  boots  and  shoes,"  at 
once  arrested  her. 

"  It  is  half  past  six  now,"  said  Miss  Linnet,  looking  at  her 
watch  as  the  servant  appeared  with  the  tea-tray.  "  I  sup- 
pose the  delegates  are  come  back  by  this  time.  If  Mr.  Try- 
an  had  not  so  kindly  promised  to  call  and  let  us  know,  I  should 
hardly  rest  without  walking  to  Milby  myself  to  know  what 
answer  they  have  brought  back.  It  is  a  great  privilege  for 
us,  Mr.  Tryan  living  at  Mrs.  Wagstaff's,  for  he  is  often  able  to 
take  us  on  his  way  backward  and  forward  into  the  town." 

"  I  wonder  if  there's  another  man  in  the  world  who  has 
been  brought  up  as  Mr.  Tryan  has,  that  would  choose  to  live 
in  those  small  close  rooms  on  the  common,  among  heaps  of 
dirty  "cottages,  for  the  sake  of  being  near  the  poor  people," 
said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  I'm  afraid  he  hurts  his  health  by  it  ;~lie- 
looks  to  me  far  from  strong." 

"  Ah,"  said  Miss  Pratt, "  I  understand  he  is  of  a  highly  re- 
spectable family  indeed,  in  Huntingdonshire.  I  heard  him 
myself  speak  of  his  father's  carriage — quite  incidentally,  you 
know — and  Eliza  tells  me  what  very  fine  cambric  handker- 
chiefs he  uses.  My  eyes  are  not  good  enough  to  see  such 
things,  but  I  know  what  breeding  is  as  well  as  most  people, 
and  it  is  easy  to  see  that  Mr.  Tryan  is  quite  comme  ilfaw,  to 
use  a  French  expression." 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  211 

"  I  should  like  to  tell  him  better  nor  use  fine  cambric  i'  this 
place,  where  there's  such  washing ;  it's  a  shame  to  be  seen," 
said  Mrs.  Linnet ;  "  he'll  get  'em  tore  to  pieces.  Good  lawn 
'ud  be  far  better.  I  saw  what  a  color  his  linen  looked  at  the 
sacrament  last  Sunday.  Mary's  making  him  a  black  silk  case 
to  hold  his  bands,  but  I  told  her  she'd  more  need  wash  'em 
for  him." 

"  Oh,  mother !"  said  Rebecca,  with  solemn  severity,  "  pray 
don't  think  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  and  linen,  when  we  are 
talking  of  such  a  man.  And  at  this  moment,  too,  when  he 
is  perhaps  having  to  bear  a  heavy  blow.  We  don't  know  but 
wickedness  may  have  triumphed,  and  Mr.  Prendergast  may 
have  consented  to  forbid  the  lecture.  There  have  been  dis- 
pensations quite  as  mysterious,  and  Satan  is  evidently  putting 
forth  all  his  strength  to  resist  the  entrance  of  the  Gospel  into 
Milby  Church." 

"  You  niver  spoke  a  truer  word  than  that,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Linnet,  who  accepted  all  religious  phrases,  but  was  ex- 
tremely rationalistic  in  her  interpretation ;  "  for  if  iver  Old 
Harry  appeared  in  a  human  form,  it's  that  Dempster.  It  was 
all  through  him  as  we  got  cheated  out  o'  Pye's  Croft,  making 
out  as  the  title  wasn't  good.  Such  lawyer's  villainy  !  As  if 
paying  good  money  wasn't  title  enough  to  any  thing.  If  your 
father  as  is  dead  and  gone  had  been  worthy  to  know  it !  But 
he'll.have  a  fall  some  dny,  Dempster  will.  Mark  my  words." 

"  Ah,  out  of  his  carriage,  you  mean,"  said  Miss  Pratt,  who, 
in  the  movement  occasioned  by  the  clearing  of  the  table,  had 
lost  the  first  part  of  Mrs.  Linnet's  speech.  "  It  certainly  is 
alarming  to  see  him  driving  home  from  Kptb^erbjk  flogging 
his  galloping  horse  like  a  madman.  My  broTheFfesfis  often  said 
he  expected  every  Thursday  evening  to  be  called  in  to  set 
some  of  Dempster's  bones ;  but  I  suppose  ho  may  drop  that 
expectation  now,  for  we  are  given  to  understand  from  good 
authority  that  he  has  forbidden  his  wife  to  eail  my  brother 
in  again  either  to  herself  or  her  mother.  He  swears  no  Try- 
anite  doctor  shall  attend  his  family.  I  have  i-eason  to  believe 
that  Pilgrim  was  called  in  to  Mrs.  Dempster's  mother  the  other 
day." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Raynor !  she's  glad  to  do  any  thing  for  the 
sake  of  peace  and  quietness,"  said  Mr&.  Pettil'er ;  "  but  it's  no 
trifle  at  her  time  of  life  to  part  with  a  doctor  who  knows  her 
constitution." 

"What  trouble  that  poor  woman  has  to  bear  in  her  old 
age  !"  said  Mary  Linnet,  "  to  see  her  daughter  leading  such 
a  life  ! — an  only  daughter,  too,  that  she  doats  on." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Pratt.     "  We,  of  course,  know 


212  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

more  about  it  than  most  people,  my  brother  having  attended 
the  family  so  many  years.  For  my  part,  I  never  thought  well 
of  the  marriage ;  and  I  endeavored  to  dissuade  my  brother 
when  Mrs.  Raynor  asked  him  to  give  Janet  away  at  the  wed- 
ding. '  If  you  will  take  my  advice,  Richard,'  I  said, '  you  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that  marriage.'  And  he  has  seen 
the  justice  of  my  opinion  since.  Mrs.  Raynor  herself  was 
against  the  connection  at  first ;  but  she  always  spoiled  Janet ; 
and  I  fear,  too,  she  was  won  over  by  a  foolish  pride  in  hav- 
ing her  daughter  marry  a  professional  man.  I  fear  it  was 
so.  No  one  but  myself,  I  think,  foresaw  the  extent  of  the 
evil." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  "  Janet  had  nothing  to  look  to 
but  being  a  governess ;  and  it  was  hard  for  Mrs.  Raynor  to 
have  to  work  at  millinering — a  woman  well  brought  up,  and 
her  husband  a  man  who  held  his  head  as  high  as  any  man  in 
Thurston.  And  it  isn't  every  body  that  sees  every  thing  fif- 
teen years  beforehand.  Robert  Dempster  was  the  cleverest 
man  in  Milby ;  and  there  weren't  many  young  men  fit  to  talk 
to  Janet," 

"  It  is  a  thousand  pities,"  said  Miss  Pratt,  choosing  to  ignore 
Mrs.  Pettifer's  slight  sarcasm, "  for  I  certainly  did  "consider  Ja- 
net Raynor  the  most  promising  young  woman  of  my  acquaint- 
ance;— a  little  too  much  lifted  up,  perhaps,  by  her  superior 
education,  and  too  much  given  to  satire,  but  able  to  express 
herself  very  well  indeed  about  any  book  I  recommended  to 
her  perusal.  There  is  no  young  woman  in  Milby  now  who 
can  be  compared  with  what  Janet  was  when  she  was  married, 
either  in  mind  or  person.  I  consider  Miss  Landor  far,  far  be- 
low her.  Indeed,  I  can  not  say  much  for  the  mental  superi- 
ority of  the  young  ladies  in  our  first  families.  They  are  su- 
perficial— very  superficial." 

"  She  made  the  handsomest  bride  that  ever  came  out  of 
Milby  Church,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  Such  a  very  fine 
figure !  and  it  showed  off  her  white  poplin  so  well.  And  what 
a  pretty  smile  Janet  always  had  !  Poor  thing,  she  keeps  that 
now  for  all  her  old  friends.  I  never  see  her  but  she  has  some- 
thing pretty  to  say  to  me — living  in  the  same  street,  you 
know,  I  can't  help  seeing  her  often,  though  I've  never  been  to 
the  house  since  Dempster  broke  out  on  me  in  one  of  his 
drunken  fits.  She  comes  to  me  sometimes,  poor  thing,  look- 
ing so  strange,  any  body  passing  her  in  the  street  may  see 
plain  enough  what's  the  matter;  but  she's  always  got  some 
little  good-natured  plan  in  her  head,  for  all  that.  Only  last 
night  when  I  met  her,  I  saw  five  yards  off  she  wasn't  fit  to  be 
out ;  but  she  had  a  basin  in  her  hand,  full  of  -something  she 


JANET'S  BKPENTANCE.  213' 

was  carrying  to  Sally  Martin,  the  deformed  girl  that's  in  a 
consumption." 

"  But  she  is  just  as  bitter  against  Mr.  Tryjan  .agJier^msband 
is,  I  understand,"  said  Rebecca!  "  Her  heartis  very  much  set 
against  the  truth,  for  I  understand  she  bought  Mr.  Tryan's 
sermons  ou  purpose  to  ridicule  them  to  Mrs.  Crewe." 

"  Well,  poor  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  "  you  know  she 
stands  up  for  every  thing  her  husband  says  and  does.  She 
never  will  admit  to  any  body  that  he's  uot  a  good  husband." 

"  That  is  her  pride,"  said  Miss  Pratt.  "  She  married  him 
in  opposition  to  the  advice  of  her  best  friends,  and  now  she  is 
not  willing  to  admit  that  she  was  wrong.  Why,  even  to  my 
brother — and  a  medical  attendant,  you  know,  can  hardly  fail 
to  be  acquainted  with  family  secrets — she  has  always  pretend- 
ed to  have  the  highest  respect  for  her  husband's  qualities. 
Poor  Mrs.  Raynor,  however,  is  well  aware  that  every  one 
knows  the  real  state  of  things.  Latterly,  she  has  not  even 
avoided  the  subject  with  me.  The  very  last  time  I  called  on 
her  she  said, '  Have  you  been  to  see  my  poor  daughter  ?'  and 
burst  into  tears." 

"  Pride  or  no  pride,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  "  I  shall  always 
stand  up  for  Janet  Dempster.  She  sat  up  with  me  night  after 
night  when  I  had  that  attack  of  rheumatic  fever  six  years 
ago.  There's  great  excuses  for  her.  When  a  woman  can't 
think  of  her  husband  coming  home  without  trembling,  it's 
enough  to  make  her  drink  something  to  blunt  her  feelings — 
and  no  children,  either,  to  keep  her  from  it.  You  and  me  might 
do  the  same,  if  we  were  in  her  place." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Mrs.  Pettifer,"  said  Miss  Pratt.  "  Un- 
der no  circumstances  can  I  imagine  myself  resorting  to  a  prac- 
tice so  degrading.  A  woman  should  find  support  in  her  own 
strength  of  mind." 

"  I  think,"  said  Rebecca,  who  considered  Miss  Pratt  still 
very  blind  in  spiritual  things,  notwithstanding  her  assump- 
tion of  enlightenment,  "  she  will  find  poor  support  if  she  trusts 
only  to  her  own  strength.  She  must  seek  aid  elsewhere  than 
in  herself." 

Happily  the  removal  of  the  tea-things  just  then  created  a 
little  confusion,  which  aided  Miss  Pratt  to  repress  her  resent- 
ment at  Rebecca's  presumption  in  correcting  her — a  person 
like  Rebecca  Linnet !  who  six  months  ago  was  as  flighty 
and  vain  a  woman  as  Miss  Pratt  had  ever  known — so  very 
unconscious  of  her  unfortunate  person ! 

The  ladies  had  scarcely  been  seated  at  their  work  another 
hour,  when  the  sun  was  sinking,  and  the  clouds  that  flecked  the 
sky  to  the  very  zenith  were  every  moment  taking  on  a  bright- 


214  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

er  gold.  The  gate  of  the  little  garden  opened,  and  Miss  Lin« 
net,  seated  at  her  small  table  near  the  window,  saw  Mr.  Tryan 
enter. 

"There  is.  Mr.  Tryan,"  she  said,  and  her  pale  cheek  was 
lighted  up  with  a  little  blush  that  would  have  made  her  look 
more  attractive  to  almost  any  one  except  Miss  Eliza  Pratt, 
whose  fine  gray  eyes  allowed  few  things  to  escape  her  silent 
.observation.  "Mnry  Limtrt-ffHin  morr  and  moro  ininrr  with 
Mr.Txy.an,"  thought  Miss  Eliza ;  "it  is  really  pitiable  to  see 
Btich  feelings  in  a  woman  of  her  age,  with  those  old-maidish 
little  ringlets.  I  dare  say  she  flatters  herself  Mr.  Tryan  may 
fall  in  love  with  her,  because  he  makes  her  useful  among  the 
poor."  At  the  same  time,  Miss  Eliza,  as  she  bent  her  hand- 
some head  and  large  cannon  curls  with  apparent  calmness 
over  her  work,  felt  a  considerable  internal  flutter  when  she 
heard  the  knock  at  the  door.  Rebecca  had  less  self-command. 
She  felt  too  much  agitated  to  go  on  with  her  pasting,  and 
clutched  the  leg  of  the  table  to  counteract  the  trembling  in 
her  hands. 

Poor  women's  hearts !  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  laugh 
at  you,  and  make  cheap  jests  on  your  susceptibility  towards 
the  clerical  sex,  as  if  it  had  nothing  deeper  or  more  lovely  in 
it  than  the  mere  vulgar  angling  for  :v  husband.  Even  in  these 
enlightened  days,Tnimy  a  curate  who,  considered  abstractedly, 
is  nothing  more  than  a  sleek  bimanous  animal  in  a  white  neck- 
cloth, with  views  more  or  less  Anglican,  and  furtively  addict- 
ed to  the  flute,  is  adored  by  a  girl  who  has  coarse  brothers, 
or  by  a  solitary  woman  who -would  like  to  be  a  helpmate  in 
good  works  beyond  her  own  means,  simply  because  he  seems 
to  them  the  model  of  refinement  and  of  public  usefulness. 
What  wonder,  then,  that  in  Milby  society,  such  as  I  have  told 
you  it  was  a  very  long  while  ago,  a  zealous  evangelical  clergy* 
man,  aged  thirty-three,  called  forth  all  the  little  agitations 
that  belong  to  the  divine  necessity  of  loving,  implanted  in  the 
Miss  Linnets,  with  their  seven  or  eight  lustrums  and  their  un- 
fashionable ringlets,  no  less  than  in  Miss  Eliza  Pratt,  with  her 
youthful  bloom  and  her  ample  cannon  curls. 

But  Mr.  Tryan  has  entered  the  room,  and  the  strange  light 
from  the  golden  sky  falling  on  his  light-brown  hair,  which  is 
brushed  high  up  round  his  head,  makes  it  look  almost  like  an 
aureote.  His  gray  eyes,  too,  shine  with  unwonted  brilliancy 
this  evening.  They  were  not  remarkable  eyes,  but  they  ac- 
corded completely  in  their  changing  light  with  the  changing 
expression  of  his  person,  which  indicated  the  paradoxical  char- 
acter often  observable  in  a  large-limbed  sanguine  blond ;  at 
once  mild  and  irritable,  gentle  and  overbearing,  indolent  and 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  215 

resolute,  self-conscious  and  dreamy.  Except  that  the  well- 
filled  lips  had  something  of  the  artificially  compressed  look 
which  is  often  the  sign  of  a  struggle  to  keep  the  dragon  un- 
dermost, and  that  the  complexion  was  rather  pallid,  giving 
the  idea  of  imperfect  health,  Mr.  Tryan's  face  in  repose  was 
that  of  an  ordinary  whiskerless  blond,  and  it  seemed  difficult 
to  refer  a  certain  air  of  distinction  about  him  to  any  thing  in 
particular,  unless  it  were  his  delicate  hands  and  well-shapen 
feet. 

It  Avas  a  great  anomaly  to  the  Milby  mind  that  a  canting 
evangelical  parson,  who  would  take  tea  with  tradespeo- 
ple, and  make  friends  of  vulgar  women  like  the  Linnets, 
should  have  so  much  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  and  be  so  little 
like  the  splay-footed  Mr.  Stickney  of  Salem,  to  whom  he  ap- 
proximated so  closely  in  doctrine.  And  this  want  of  corre- 
spondence between  the  physique  and  the  creed  had  excited  no 
less  surprise  in  the  larger  town  of  Laxeter,  where  Mr.  Try  an 
had  formerly  held  a  curacy ;  for  of  the  two  other  Low 
Church  clergymen  in  the  neighborhood,  one  was  a  Welsh- 
man of  globose  figure  and  unctuous  compleMion,  -and  the 
other  a  man  of  atrabiliar  aspect,  with  lank  black  hair,  and  a 
redundance  of  limp  cravat — in  fact,  the  sort  of  thing  you 
might  expect  in  men  who  distributed  the  publications  of  the 
Religious  Tract  Society,  and  introduced  Dissenting  hymns 
into  the  Church. 

Mr.  Tryan  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Linnet,  bowed  with 
rather  a  preoccupied  air  to  the  other  ladies,  and  seated  him- 
self in  the  large  horse-hair  easy-chair  which  had  been  drawn 
forward  for  him,  while  the  ladies  ceased  from  their  work,  and 
ilxed  their  eyes  on  him,  awaiting  the  news  he  had  to  tell 
them. 

"  It  seems,"  he  began,  in  a  low  and  silvery  tone,  "  I  need 
a  lesson  of  patience  ;  there  has  been  something  wrong  in  my 
thought  or  action  about  this  evening  lecture.  I  have  been 
too  much  bent  on  doing  good  to  Milby  after  my  own  plan 
— too  reliant  on  my  own  wisdom." 

Mr.  Tryan  paused.  He  was  struggling  against  inward 
irritation. 

"  The  delegates  are  come  back,  then  ?"  "  Has  Mr.  Pren- 
dergast  given  way  ?"  "  Has  Dempster  succeeded  ?" — were 
the  eager  questions  of  three  ladies  at  once. 

"  Yes ;  the  town  is  in  an  uproar.  As  we  were  sitting  in 
Mr.  Lander's  drawing-room  we  heard  a  loud  cheering,  and 
presently  Mr.  Thrupp,  the  clerk  at  the  bank,  who  had  been 
waiting  at  the  Red  Lion  to  hear  the  result,  came  to  let  us 
know.  He  said  Dempster  had  been  making  a  speech  to  the 


216  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

mob  out  the  window.  They  were  distributing  drink  to  the 
people,  and  hoisting  placards  in  great  letters, — '  Down  with 
the  Tryanites  !'  'Down  with  cant!'  They  had  a  hideous 
caricature  of  me  being  tripped-up  and  pitched  head-foremost 
out  of  the  pulpit.  Good  old  Mr.  Landor  would  insist  on 
sending  me  round  in  the  carriage ;  he  thought  I  should  not 
be  safe  from  the  mob ;  but  I  got  down  at  the  Cressways. 
The  row  was  evidently  preconcerted  by  Dempster  before  he 
set  out.  He  made  sure  of  succeeding." 

Mr.  Tryan's  utterance  had  been  getting  rather  louder 
and  more  rapid  in  the  course  of  this  speech,  and  he  now 
added,  in  the  energetic  chest-voice,  which,  both  in  and  out 
of  the  pulpit,  alternated  continually  with  his  more  silvery 
notes, 

"  But  his  triumph  will  be  a  short  one.  If  he  thinks  he  can 
intimidate  me  by  obloquy  or  threats,  he  has  mistaken  the 
man  he  has  to  deal  with.  Mr.  Dempster  and  his  colleagues 
will  find  themselves  checkmated  after  all.  Mr.  Prendergast 
has  been  false  to  his  own  conscience  in  this  business.  He 
knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  he  is  throwing  away  the  souls  of 
the  people  by  leaving  things  as  they  are  in  the  parish.  But 
I  shall  appeal  to  the  Bishop — I  am  confident  of  his  sympathy." 

"  The  Bishop  will  be  coming  shortly,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss 
Pratt,  'Ho  hold  a  confirmation  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  1*  shall  write  to  him  at  once,  and  lay  the  case 
before  him.  Indeed,  I  must  hurry  away  now,  for  I  have 
many  matters  to  attend  to.  You,  ladies,  have  been  kindly 
helping  me  with  your  labors,!  see,"  continued  Mr.  Tryan, 
politely,  glancing  at  the  canvas-covered  books  as  he  rose 
from  his  seat.  Then,  turning  to  Mary  Linnet :  "  Our  library 
is  really  getting  on,  I  think.  You  and  your  sister  have  quite 
a  heavy  task  of  distribution  now." 

Poor  Rebecca  felt  it  very  hard  to  bear  that  Mr.  Tryan  did 
not  turn  towards  her  too.  If  he  knew  how  much  she  entered 
into  his  feelings  about  the  lecture,  and  the  interest  she  took 
in  the  library.  Well !  perhaps  it  was  her  lot  to  be  overlook- 
ed— and  it  might  be  a  token  of  mercy.  Even  a  good  man 
might  not  always  know  the  heart  that  was  most  with  him. 
But  the  next  moment  poor  Mary  had  a  pang,  when  Mr.  Try- 
an turned  to  Miss  Eliza  Pratt,  and  the  preoccupied  expres- 
sion of  his  face  melted  into  that  beaming  timidity  with  which 
a  man  almost  always  addresses  a  pretty  woman. 

"  I  have  to  thank  you,  too,  Miss  Eliza,  for  seconding  me  so 
well  in  your  visits  to  Joseph  Mercer.  The  old  man  tells  me 
how  precious  he  finds  your  reading  to  him,  now  he  is  no  long- 
er able  to  go  to  church." 


JANET'S  KEPENTJLNCE.  217 

Miss  Eliza  only  answered  by  a  blush,  which  made  her  look 
all  the  handsomer,  but  her  aunt  said, 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Tryan,  I  have  ever  inculcated  on  my  dear  Eliza 
the  importance  of  spending  her  leisure  in  being  useful  to  her 
fellow-creatures.  Your  example  and  instruction  have  been 
quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  system  which  I  have  always  pur- 
sued, though  we  are  indebted  to  you  for  a  clearer  view  of 
the  motives  that  should  actuate  us  in  our  pursuit  of  good 
works.  Not  that  I  can  accuse  myself  of  having  ever  had  a 
self-righteous  spirit,  but  my  humility  was  rather  instinctive 
than  based  on  a  firm  ground  of  doctrinal  knowledge,  such  as 
you  so  admirably  impart  to  us." 

Mrs.  Linnet's  usual  entreaty  that  Mr.  Tryan  would  "  have 
something  —  some  wine-and-water  and  a  biscuit,"  was  just 
here  a  welcome  relief  from  the  necessity  of  answering  Miss 
Pratt's  oration. 

"  Not  any  thing,  my  dear  Mrs.  Linnet,  thank  you.  You 
forget  what  a  Kechabite  I  am.  By-the-by,  when  I  went  this 
morning  to  see  a  poor  girl  in  Butcher's  Lane,  whom  I  had 
heard  of  as  being  in  a  consumption,  I  found  Mrs.  Dempster 
there.  I  had  often  met  her  in  the  street,  but  did  not  know  it 
was  Mrs.  Dempster.  It  seems  she  goes  among  the  poor  a 
good  deal.  She  is  really  an  interesting-looking  woman.  I 
was  quite  surprised,  for  I  have  heard  the  worst  account  of 
her  habits — that  she  is  almost  as  bad  as  her  husband.  She 
went  out  hastily  as  soon  as  I  entered.  But "  (apologetically) 
"  I  am  keeping  you  all  standing,  and  I  must  really  hurry 
away.  Mrs.  Pettifer,  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  calling 
on  you  for  some  time ;  I  shall  take  an  early  opportunity  of 
going  your  way.  Good-evening,  good-evening." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MB.  TRYAN  vras  right  in  saying  that  the  "  row  "  in  Milby 
had  been  preconcerted  by  Dempster.  The  placards  and  the 
caricature  were  prepared  before  the  departure  of  the  dele- 
gates ;  and  it  had  been  settled  that  Mat  Paine,  Dempster's 
clerk,  should  ride  out  on  Thursday  morning  to  meet  them  at 
Whitlow,  the  last  place  where  they  would  change  horses, 
that  he  might  gallop  back  and  prepare  an  ovation  for  the 
triumvirate  in  case  of  their  success.  Dempster  had  deter- 
mined to  dine  at  Whitlow  ;  so  that  Mat  Paine  was  in  Milby 
again  two  hours  before  the  entrance  of  the  delegates,  and  haq 

10 


218  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

time  to  send  a  whisper  up  the  back  streets  that  there  was 
promise  of  a  "  spree  "  in  the  Bridge  Way,  as  well  as  to  as- 
semble two  knots  of  picked  men — one  to  feed  the  flame  of 
orthodox  zeal  with  gin-and-water,  at  the  Green  Man,  near 
High  Street ;  the  other  to  solidify  their  church  principles  with 
heady  beer  at  the  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff  in  the  Bridge  Way. 
The  Bridge  Way  was  an  irregular  straggling  street,  wrhere 
the  town  fringed  off  raggedly  into  the  Whitlow  road:  rows 
of  new  red  brick  houses,  in  which  ribbon-looms  were  rat- 
tling behind  long  lines  of  window,  alternating  with  old,  half- 
thatched,  half-tiled  cottages — one  of  those  dismal  wide  streets 
where  dirt  and  misery  have  no  long  shadows  thrown  on  them 
to  soften  their  ugliness.  Here,  about  half-past  five  o'clock, 
Silly  Caleb,  an  idiot  well  known  in  Dog  Lane,  but  more  of  a 
stranger  in  the  Bridge  Way,  was  seen  slouching  along  with 
a  string  of  boys  hooting  at  his  heels;  presently  another  group, 
for  the  most  part  out  at  elbows,  came  briskly  in  the  same  di- 
rection, looking  round  them  with  an  air  of  expectation  ;  and 
at  no  long  interval,  Deb  Traunter,  in  a  pink  flounced  gown 
and  floating  ribbons,  was  observed  talking  with  great  affabil- 
ity to  two  men  in  seal-skin  caps  and  fustian,  who  formed  her 
cortege.  The  Bridge  Way  began  to  have  a  presentiment  of 
something  in  the  wind.  Phib  Cook  left  her  evening  wash- 
tub  and  appeared  at  her  door  in  soap-suds,  a  bonnet-poke,  and 
general  dampness ;  three  narrow-chested  ribbon-weavers,  in 
rusty  black  streaked  with  shreds  of  many-colored  silk,  saun- 
tered out  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets ;  and  Molly  Beale, 
a  brawny  old  virago,  descrying  wiry  Dame  Ricketts  peeping 
out  from  her  entry,  seized  the  opportunity  of  renewing  the 
morning's  skirmish.  In  short,  the  Bridge  Way  was  in  that 
state  of  excitement  which  is  understood  to  announce  a  "  dem- 
onstration "  on  the  part  of  the  British  public ;  and  the  afflux 
of  remote  townsmen  increasing,  there  was  soon  so  large  a 
crowd  that  it  was  time  for  Bill  Powers,  a  plethoric  Goliath, 
who  presided  over  the  knot  of  beer-drinkers  at  the  Bear  and 
Ragged  Staff,  to  issue  forth  with  his  companions,  and,  like 
the  enunciator  of  the  ancient  myth,  make  the  assemblage  dis- 
tinctly conscious  of  the  common  sentiment  that  had  drawn 
them  together.  The  expectation  of  the  delegates'  chaise,  add- 
ed to  the  fight  between  Molly  Beale  and  Dame  Ricketts, 
and  the  ill-advised  appearance  of  a  lean  bull-terrier,  were  a 
sufficient  safety-valve  to  the  popular  excitement  during  the 
remaining  quarter  of  an  hour  ;  at  the  end  of  which  the  chaise 
was  seen  approaching  along  the  Whitlow  road,  with  oak  boughs 
ornamenting  the  horses'  heads  ;  and,  to  quote  the  account  of 
this  interesting  scene  which  was  sent  to  the  "  Rotherby 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  219 

Guardian,"  "  loud  cheers  immediately  testified  to  the  sympa- 
thy of  the  honest  fellows  collected  there  with  the  public-spir- 
ited exertions  of  their  fellow-townsmen."  Bill  Powers,  whose 
bloodshot  eyes,  bent  hat,  and  protuberant  altitude,  marked 
him  out  as  the  natural  leader  of  the  assemblage,  undertook 
to  interpret  the  common  sentiment  by  stopping  the  chaise, 
advancing  to  the  door  with  raised  hat,  and  begging  to  know 
of  Mr.  Dempster,  whether  the  Rector  had  forbidden  the 
"  canting  lecture." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Dempster.  "  Keep  up  a  jolly  good 
hurray." 

No  public  duty  could  have  been  more  easy  and  agreeable 
to  Mr.  Powers  and  his  associates,  and  the  chorus  swelled  all 
the  way  to  the  High  Street,  where, by  a  mysterious  coincidence 
often  observable  in  these  spontaneous  "  demonstrations," 
large  placards  on  long  poles  were  observed  to  shoot  upwards 
from  among  the  crowd,  principally  in  the  direction  of  Tuck- 
er's Lane,  where  the  Green  Man  was  situated.  One  bore, 
"  Down  with  the  Tryanites  !"  another,  "No  Cant  I"  another, 
*'  Long  live  our  venerable  Curate  !"  and  one  in  still  larger 
letters,  "  Sound  Church  Principles  and  no  Hypocrisy  !"  But 
a  still  more  remarkable  impromptu  was  a  huge  caricature  of 
Mr.  Tryan  in  gown  and  band,  with  an  enormous  aureole  of 
yellow  hair  and  upturned  eyes,  standing  on  the  pulpit  stairs 
and  trying  to  pull  down  old  Mr.  Crewe.  Groans,  yells,  and 
hisses — hisses,  yells,  and  groans — only  stemmed  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  another  caricature  representing  Mr.  Tryan  being 
pitched  head-foremost  from  the  pulpit  stairs  by  a  hand  which 
the  crtist,  either  from  subtility  of  intention  or  want  of  space, 
had  left  unindicated.  In  the  midst  of  the  tremendous  cheer- 
ing that  saluted  this  piece  of  symbolical  art,  the  chaise  had 
reached  the  door  of  the  Red  Lion,  and  loud  cries  of  "  Demp- 
ster forever  !"  with  a  feebler  cheer  now  and  then  for  Tomlin- 
son  and  Budd,  were  presently  responded  to  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  public-spirited  attorney  at  the  large  upper  win- 
dow, where  also  were  visible  a  little  in  the  background  the 
small  sleek  head  of  Mr.  Budd,  and  the  blinking  countenance  of 
Mr.  Tomlinson. 

Mr.  Dempster  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  poked  his  head 
forward  with  a  butting  motion  by  way  of  bow.  A  storm  of 
cheers  subsided  at  last  into  dropping  sounds  of  "  Silence  !" 
"  Hear  him  !"  "  Go  it,  Dempster  !''  and  the  lawyer's  rasping 
voice  became  distinctly  audible. 

"  Fellow-townsmen  !  It  gives  us  the  sincerest  pleasure— 
I  speak  for  my  respected  colleagues  as  well  as  myself — to 
witness  these  strong  proofs  of  your  attachment  to  the  princi- 


220  BCEXES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

pies  of  our  excellent  Church,  and  your  zeal  for  the  honor  of 
our  venerable  pastor.  But  it  is  no  more  than  I  expected  of 
you.  I  know  you  well.  I've  known  you  for  the  last  twenty 
years  to  be  as  honest  and  respectable  a  set  of  ratepayers  as 
any  in  this  country.  Your  hearts  are  sound  to  the  core  !  No 
man  had  better  try  to  thrust  his  cant  and  hypocrisy  down 
your  throats.  You're  used  to  wash  them  with  liquor  of  a  bet- 
ter flavor.  This  is  the  proudest  moment  in  my  own  life, 
and  I  think  I  may  say  in  that  of  my  colleagues,  in  which  I 
have  to  tell  you  that  our  exertions  in  the  cause  of  sound  re- 
ligion and  manly  morality  have  been  crowned  with  success. 
Yes,  my  fellow-townsmen  !  I  have  the  gratification  of  an- 
nouncing to  you  thus  formally  what  you  have  already  learn- 
ed indirectly.  The  pulpit  from  which  our  venerable  pastor 
has  fed  us  with  sound  doctrine  for  half  a  century  is  not  to  be 
invaded  by  a  fanatical,  sectarian,  double-faced,  Jesuitical  in- 
terloper !  We  are  not  to  have  our  young  people  demoralized 
and  corrupted  by  the  temptations  to  vice,  notoriously  connect- 
ed with  Sunday  evening  lectures  !  We  are  not  to  have  a 
preacher  obtruding  himself  upon  us,  who  decries  good  works, 
and  sneaks  into  our  homes  perverting  the  faith  of  our  wives 
and  daughters !  We  are  not  to  be  poisoned  with  doctrines 
which  damp  every  innocent  enjoyment,  and  pick  a  poor  man's 
pocket  of  the  sixpence  with  which  he  might  buy  himself  a 
cheerful  glass  after  a  hard  day's  work,  under  pretense  of  pay- 
ing for  Bibles  to  send  to  the  Chicktaws  ! 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  waste  your  valuable  time  with  un- 
necessary words.  I  am  a  man  of  deeds  "  ("  Ay,  damn  you, 
f hat  you  are,  and  you  charge  well  for  'em  too,"  said  a  voice 
irom  the  crowd,  probably  that  of  a  gentleman  who  was  im- 
mediately afterwards  observed  with  his  hat  crushed  over  his 
head).  "  I  shall  always  be  at  the  service  of  my  fellow-towns- 
men, and  whoever  dares  to  hector  over  you,  or  interfere  with 
your  innocent  pleasures,  shall  have  an  account  to  settle  with 
Robert  Dempster. 

"  Now,  my  boys !  you  can't  do  better  than  disperse  and 
carry  the  good  news  to  all  your  fellow-townsmen,  whose 
hearts  are  as  sound  as  your  own.  Let  some  of  you  go  one 
way  and  some  another,  that  every  man,  woman  and  child  in 
Milby  may  know  what  you  know  yourselves.  But  before  we 
part,  let  us  have  three  cheers  for  True  Religion,  and  down 
with  Cant !" 

When  the  last  cheer  was  dying,  Mr.  Dempster  closed  the 
window,  and  the  judiciously-instructed  placards  and  carica- 
tures moved  off  in  divers  directions,  followed  by  larger  or 
smaller  divisions  of  the  crowd.  The  greatest  attraction  ap- 


JANET'S   REPENTANCE.  221 

parently  lay  in  the  direction  of  Dog  Lane,  the  outlet  towards 
Paddiford  Common,  whither  the  caricatures  were  moving; 
and  you  foresee,  of  course,  that  those  works  of  symbolical  art 
were  consumed  with  a  liberal  expenditure  of  dry  gorse-bush- 
es  and  vague  shouting. 

After  these  great  public  exertions,  it  was  natural  that  Mr. 
Dempster  and  his  colleagues  should  feel  more  in  need  than 
usual  of  a  little  social  relaxation  ;  and  a  party  of  their  friends 
was  already  beginning  to  assemble  in  the  large  parlor  of  the 
Red  Lion,  convened  partly  by  their  own  curiosity,  and  partly 
by  the  invaluable  Mat  Paine.  The  most  capacious  punch- 
bowl was  put  in  requisition ;  and  that  bom  gentleman,  Mr. 
Lo \vrne,  seated  opposite  Mr.  Dempster  as  "  Vice,"  undertook 
to  brew  the  punch,  defying  the  criticisms  of  the  envious  men 
out  of  office,  who,  with  the  readiness  of  irresponsibility,  igno- 
rantly  suggested  more  lemons.  The  social  festivities  were 
continued  till  long  past  midnight,  when  several  friends  of 
sound  religion  were  conveyed  home  with  some  difficulty,  one 
of  them  showing  a  dogged  determination  to  seat  himself  m 
the  gutter. 

Mr.  Dempster  had  done  as  much  justice  to  the  punch  as 
any  of  the  party ;  and  his  friend  Boots,  though  aware  that 
the  lawyer  could  "  carry  his  liquor  like  Old  Nick,"  with 
whose  social  demeanor  Boots  seemed  to  be  particularly  well 
acquainted,  nevertheless  thought  it  might  be  as  well  to  see  so 
good  a  customer  in  safety  to  his  own  door,  and  Avalked  quiet- 
ly behind  his  elbow  out  of  the  inn-yard.  Dempster,  however, 
soon  became  aware  of  him,  stopped  short,  and,  turning  slowly 
round  upon  him,  recognized  the  well-known  drab  waistcoat 
sleeves,  conspicuous  enough  in  the  starlight. 

"You  twopenny  scoundrel !  What  do  you  mean  by  dog- 
ging a  professional  man's  footsteps  in  this  way?  I'll  break 
every  bone  in  your  skin  if  you  attempt  to  track  me,  like  a 
beastly  cur  sniffing  at  one's  pocket.  Do  you  think  a  gentle- 
man will  make  his  way  home  any  the  better  for  having  the 
scent  of  your  blacking-bottle  thrust  up  his  nostrils  ?" 

Boots  slunk  back,  in  more  amusement  than  ill-humor,  think- 
ing the  lawyei-'s  "rum  talk"  was  doubtless  part  and  parcel 
of  his  professional  ability ;  and  Mr.  Dempster  pursued  his  slow 
way  alone. 

His  house  lay  in  Orchard  Street,  which  opened  on  the 
prettiest  outskirt  of  the  town — the  chui'ch,  the  parsonage, 
and  a  long  stretch  of  green  fields.  It  was  an  old-fashioned 
house,  with  an  overhanging  upper  story ;  outside  it  had  a 
face  of  rough  stucco,  and  casement  windows  with  green 
frames  and  shutters ;  inside,  it  was  full  of  long  passages,  and 


222  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

rooms  with  low  ceilings.  There  was  a  large  heavy  knocker 
on  the  green  door,  and  though  Mr.  Dempster  carried  a  latch- 
key, he  sometimes  chose  to  use  the  knocker.  He  chose  to  do 
so  now.  The  thunder  resounded  through  Orchard  Street, 
and,  after  a  single  minute,  there  was  a  second  clap  louder  than 
the  first.  Another  minute,  and  still  the  door  was  not  open- 
ed ;  whereupon  Mr.  Dempster,  muttering,  took  out  his  latch- 
key, and,  with  less  difficulty  than  might  have  been  expected, 
thrust  it  into  the  door.  When  he  opened  the  door  the  pas- 
sage was  dark. 

"  Janet !"  in  the  loudest  rasping  tone,  was  the  next  sound 
that  rang  through  the  house. 

"  Janet !"  again — before  a  slow  step  was  heard  on  the 
stairs,  and  a  distant  light  began  to  flicker  on  the  wall  of  the 
passage. 

"  Curse  you  !  you  creeping  idiot !    Come  faster,  can't  you  ?" 

Yet  a  few  seconds,  and  the  figure  of  a  tall  woman,  hold- 
ing aslant  a  heavy-plated  drawing-room  candlestick,  appear- 
ed at  the  turning  of  the  passage  that  led  to  the  broader  en- 
trance. 

She  had  on  a  light  dress  which  sat  loosely  about  her  figure, 
but  did  not  disguise  its  liberal,  graceful  outline.  A  heavy 
mass  of  straight  jet-black  hair  had  escaped  from  its  fastening, 
and  hung  over  her  shoulders.  Her  grandly-cut  features,  pale, 
with  the  natural  paleness  of  a  brunette,  had  premature  lines 
about  them,  telling  that  the  years  had  been  lengthened  by 
sorrow,  and  the  delicately-curved  nostril,  which  seemed  made 
to  quiver  with  the  proud  consciousness  of  power  and  beauty, 
must  have  quivered  to  the  heart-piercing  griefs  which  had 
given  that  worn  look  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth.  Her  wide- 
open  black  eyes  had  a  strangely  fixed,  sightless  gaze,  as  she 
Caused  at  the  turning,  and  stood  silent  before  her  husband. 

"I'll  teach  you  to  keep  me  waiting  in  the  dark,  you  pale 
staring  fool !"  he  said,  advancing  with  his  slow  drunken  step. 
*  What,  you've  been  drinking  again,  have  you  ?  I'llJ>eat  you 
into  your  senses." 

He  laid  his  hand  with  a  firm  grip  on  her  shoulder,  turned 
fcer  round,  and  pushed  her  slowly  before  him  along  the  pas- 
sage and  through  the  dining-room  door,  which  stood  open  on 
their  left  hand. 

There  was  a  portrait  of  Janet's  mother,  a  gray-haired, 
ciark-eyed  old  woman,  in  a  neatly  fluted  cap,  hanging  over 
the  mantel-piece.  Surely  the  aged  eyes  take  on  a  look  of  an- 
guish as  they  see  Janet — not  trembling,  no  !  it  would  be  bet- 
ter if  she  trembled — standing  stupidly  unmoved  in  her  great 
beauty,  while  the  heavy  arm  is  lifted  to  strike  her.  The  blow 


JANET'S  BEPENTANCE.  223 

falls — another — and  another.  Surely  the  mother  hears  that 
cry— "  Oh,  Robert !  pity!  pity!" 

Poor  gray-haired  woman  !  Was  it  for  this  yon  suffered  a 
mother's  pangs  in  your  lone  widowhood  five-and-thirty  years 
ago  ?  Was  it  for  this  you  kept  the  little  worn  morocco  shoes 
Janet  had  first  run  in,  and  kissed  them  day  by  day  when  she 
was  away  from  you,  a  tall  girl  at  school  ?  Was  it  for  this 
you  looked  proudly  at  her  when  she  came  back  to  you  in 
her  rich  pale  beauty,  like  a  tall  white  arum  that  has  just  un- 
folded its  grand  pure  curves  to  the  sun  ? 

The  mother  lies  sleepless  and  praying  in  her  lonely  house, 
weeping  the  difficult  tears  of  age,  because  she  dreads  this 
may  be  a  cruel  night  for  her  child. 

She  too  has  a  picture  over  her  mantel-piece,  drawn  in  chalk 
by  Janet  long  years  ago.  She  looked  at  it  before  she  went 
to  bed.  It  is  a  head  bowed  beneath  a  cross,  and  wearing  a 
crown  of  thorns. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  was  half  past  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  mid- 
summer sun  was  already  warm  on  the  roofs  and  weathercocks 
of  Milby.  The  church-bells  were  ringing,  and  many  families 
were  conscious  of  Sunday  sensations,  chiefly  referable  to  the 
fact  that  the  daughters  had  come  down  to  breakfast  in  their 
best  frocks,  and  with  their  hair  particularly  well  dressed.  For 
it  was  not  Sunday,  but  Wednesday ;  and  though  the  Bishop 
was  going  to  hold  a  Confirmation,  and  to  decide  whether  or 
not  there  should  be  a  Sunday  evening  lecture  in  Milby,  the 
sunbeams  had  the  usual  working-day  look  to  the  hay-makers 
already  long  out  in  the  fields,  and  to  laggard  weavers  just 
"  setting  up  "  their  week's  "  piece."  The  notion  of  its  being 
Sunday  was  the  strongest  in  young  ladies  like  Miss  Phipps, 
who  was  going  to  accompany  her  younger  sister  to  the  con- 
firmation, and  to  Avear  a  "sweetly  pretty"  transparent  bon- 
net with  marabout  feathers  on  the  interesting  occasion,  thus 
throwing  into  relief  the  suitable  simplicity  of  her  sisters  at- 
tire, who  was,  of  course,  to  appear  in  a  new  white  frock;  or 
in  the  pupils  at  Miss  Townley's,  who  were  absolved  from  all 
lessons,  and  were  going  to  church  to  see  the  Bishop,  and  to 
hear  the  Honorable  and  Reverend  Mr.  Prendergast,  the  rec- 
tor, read  prayers — a  high  intellectual  treat,  as  Miss  Townley 
assured  them.  It  seemed  only  natural  that  a  rector  whr> 


224  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

was  honorable  should  read  better  than  old  Mr.  Crewe,  who 
was  only  a  curate,  and  not  honorable ;  and  when  little  Clara 
Robins  wondered  why  some  clergymen  were  rectors  and  oth- 
ers not,  Ellen  Marriott  assured  her  with  great  confidence  that 
it  was  only  the  clever  men  who  were  made  rectors.  Ellen 
Marriott  was  going  to  be  confirmed.  She  was  a  short,  fair, 
plump  girl,  with  blue  eyes  and  sandy  hair,  which  was  this 
morning  arranged  in  taller  cannon  curls  than  usual,  for  the 
reception  of  the  Episcopal  benediction,  and  some  of  the  young 
ladies  thought  her  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  school ;  but  others 
gave  the  preference  to  her  rival,  Maria  Gardner,  who  was 
much  taller,  and  had  a  lovely  "  crop  "  of  dark-brown  ringlets, 
and  who,  being  also  about  to  take  upon  herself  the  vows 
made  in  her  name  at  her  baptism,  had  oiled  and  twisted  her 
ringlets  with  special  care.  As  she  seated  herself  at  the  break- 
fast-table before  Miss  Townley's  entrance  to  dispense  the 
weak  coffee,  her  crop  excited  so  strong  a  sensation  that  Ellen 
Marriott  was  at  length  impelled  to  look  at  it,  and  to  say  with 
suppressed  but  bitter  sarcasm,  "Is  that  Miss  Gardner's 
head  ?"  "  Yes,"  said  Maria,  amiable  and  stuttering,  and  no 
match  for  Ellen  in  retort;  "th  —  th  —  this  is  my  head." 
"  Then  I  don't  admire  it  at  all !"  was  the  crushing  rejoinder  of 
Ellen,  followed  by  a  murmur  of  approval  among  her  friends. 
Young  ladies,  I  suppose,  exhaust  their  sac  of  venom  in  this 
way  at  school.  That  is  the  reason  why  they  have  such  a 
harmless  tooth  for  each  other  in  after  life. 

The  only  other  candidate  for  confirmation  at  Miss  Town- 
ley's  was  Mary  Dunn,  a  draper's  daughter  in  Milby  and  a 
distant  relation  of  the  Miss  Linnets.  Her  pale  lanky  hair 
could  never  be  coaxed  into  permanent  curl,  and  this  morning 
the  heat  had  brought  it  down  to  its  natural  condition  of 
lankiness  earlier  than  usual.  But  that  was  not  Avhat  made 
her  sit  melancholy  and  apart  at  the  lower  end  of  the  form. 
Her  parents  were  admirers  of  Mr.  Tryan,  and  had  been  per- 
suaded, by  the  Miss  Linnets'  influence,  to  insist  that  their 
daughter  should  be  prepared  for  confirmation  by  him,  over 
and  above  the  preparation  given  to  Miss  Townley's  pupils  by 
Mr.  Crewe.  Poor  Mary  Dunn !  I  am  afraid  she  thought  it 
too  heavy  a  price  to  pay  for  these  spiritual  advantages,  to  be 
excluded  from  every  game  at  ball,  to  be  obliged  to  walk  with 
none  but  little  girls — in  fact,  to  be  the  object  of  an  aversion 
that  nothing  short  of  an  incessant  supply  of  plumcakes  would 
have  neutralized.  And  Mrs.  Dunn  was  of  opinion  that  plum- 
cake  was  unwholesome.  The  anti-Tryanite  spirit,  you  per- 
ceive, was  very  strong  at  Miss  Townley's,  imported  probably 
by  day  scholars,  as  well  as  encouraged  by  the  fact  that  that 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  225 

clever  woman  was  herself  strongly  opposed  to  innovation, 
and  remarked  every  Sunday  that  Mr.  Crewe  had  preached  an 
"excellent  discourse."  Poor  Mary  Dunn  dreaded  the  mo- 
ment when  school-hours  would  be  over,  for  then  she  was  sure 
to  be  the  butt  of  those  very  explicit  remarks  which,  in  young 
ladies'  as  well  as  young  gentlemen's  seminaries,  constitute  the 
most  subtle  and  delicate  form  of  the  innuendo.  "  I'd  never 
be  a  Tryanite,  would  you  V"  "  Oh  here  comes  the  lady  that 
knows  so  much  more  about  religion  than  w<e  do !"  "Some 
people  think  themselves  so  very  piotre!" 

It  i&.  really  surprising  that  young  ladies  should  not  be 
thought  competent  to  the  same  curriculum  as  young  gentle- 
men. I  observe  that  their  powers  of  sarcasm  are  quite  equal ; 
and  if  tnere  had  been  a  genteel  academy  for  young  gentle- 
men at  Milby,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that,  notwithstanding 
Euclid  and  the  classics,  the  party  spirit  there  would  not  have 
exhibited  itself  in  more  pungent  irony,  or  more  incisive  satire, 
than  was  heard  in  Miss  Townley's  seminary.  But  there  was 
no  such  academy,  the  existence  of  the  grammar-school  under 
Mr.  Crowe's  superintendence  probably  discouraging  specula- 
tions of  that  kind ;  and  the  genteel  youths  of  Milby  were 
chiefly  come  home  for  the  midsummer  holidays  from  distant 
schools.  Several  of  us  had  just  assumed  coat-tails,  and  the 
assumption  of  new  responsibilities  apparently  following  as  a 
matter  of  course,  we  were  among  the  candidates  for  confirma- 
tion. I  wish  I  could  say  that  the  solemnity  of  our  feelings 
was  on  a  level  with  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion  ;  but  unim- 
aginative boys  find  it  difficult  to  recognize  apostolical  insti- 
tutions in  their  developed  form,  and  I  fear  our  chief  emotion 
concerning  the  ceremony  was  a  sense  of  sheepishness,  and  our 
chief  opinion,  the  speculative  and  heretical  position  that  it 
ought  to  be  confined  to  the  girls.  It  was  a  pity,  you  will  say  \ 
but  it  is  the  way  with  us  men  in  other  crises,  that  come  a  long 
while  after  confirmation.  The  golden  moments  in  the  stream 
of  life  rush  past  us,  and  we  see  nothing  but  sand;  the  an- 
gels come  to  visit  us,  and  we  only  know  them  when  they  are 
gone. 

But  as  I  said,  the  morning  was  sunny,  the  bells  were  ring- 
ing, the  ladies  of  Milby  were  dressed  in  their  Sunday  gar- 
ments. 

And  who  is  this  bright-looking  woman  walking  with  hasty 
step  along  Orchard  Street  so  early,  with  a  large  nosegay  in 
her  hand  ?  Can  it  be  Janet  Dempster,  on  whom  we  looked 
with  such  deep  pity,  one  sad  midnight, hardly  a  fortnight  ago? 
Yes;  no  other  woman  in  Milby  has  those  searching  black  eyes, 
that  tall,  graceful,  unconstrained  figure,  set  off  by  her  simple 

10* 


226  SCENES   OP  CLEEICAL   LIFE. 

muslin  dress  and  black  lace  shawl,  that  massy  black  hair  now  so 
neatly  braided  in  glossy  contrast  with  the  white  satin  ribbons 
of  her  modest  cap  and  bonnet.  No  other  woman  has  that 
sweet  speaking  smile,  with  which  she  nods  to  Jonathan  Lamb, 
the  old  parish  clerk.  And,  ah ! — now  she  comes  nearer — there 
are  those  sad  lines  about  the  mouth  and  eyes  on  which  that 
sweet  smile  plays  like  sunbeams  on  the  storm-beaten  beauty 
of  the  full  and  ripened  corn. 

She  is  turning  out  of  Orchard  Street,  and  making  her  way 
as  fast  as  she  can  to  her  mother's  house,  a  pleasant  cottage 
facing  the  roadside  meadow,  from  which  the  hay  is  being  car- 
ried. Mrs.  Raynor  has  had  her  breakfast,  and  is  seated  in  her 
arm-chair  reading,  when  Janet  opens  the  door,  saying,  in  her 
most  playful  voice, 

"  Please,  mother,  I'm  come  to  show  myself  to  you  before  I 
go  to  the  Parsonage.  Have  I  put  on  my  pretty  cap  and  bon- 
net to  satisfy  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Raynor  looked  over  her  spectacles,  and  met  her 
daughter's  glance  with  eyes  as  dark  and  loving  as  her  own. 
She  was  a  much  smaller  woman  than  Janet,  both  in  figure 
and  feature,  the  chief  resemblance  lying  in  the  -eyes  and  the 
clear  brunette  complexion.  The  mother's  hair  had  long  been 
gray,  and  was  gathered  under  the  neatest  of  caps,  made  by 
her  own  clever  fingers,  as  all  Janet's  caps  and  bonnets  were 
too.  They  were  well-practised  fingers,  for  Mrs.  Raynor  had 
supported  herself  in  her  widowhood  by  keeping  a  millinery 
establishment,  and  in  this  way  had  earned  money  enough  to 
give  her  daughter  what  was  then  thought  a  first-rate  educa- 
tion, as  well  as  to  save  a  sum  which,  eked  out  by  her  son-in- 
law,  sufficed  to  support  her  in  her  solitary  old  age.  Always  the 
same  clean,  neat  old  lady,  dressed  in  black  silk,  was  Mrs.  Ray- 
nor: a  patient,  brave  wroman,  who  bowed  with  resignation 
under  the  burden  of  remembered  sorrow,  and  bore  with  meek 
fortitude  the  new  load  that  the  new  days  brought  with  them. 

"Your  bonnet  wants  pulling  a  trifle  forwarder,  my  child," 
she  said,  smiling,  and  taking  off  her  spectacles,  while  Janet  at 
once  knelt  down  before  her,  and  waited  to  be  "  set  to  rights," 
as  she  would  have  done  when  she  was  a  child.  *'  You're  go- 
ing straight  to  Mrs.  Crewe's,  I  suppose  ?  Are  those  flowers 
to  garnish  the  dishes  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,  mother.  This  is  a  nosegay  for  the  middle  of 
the  table.  I've  sent  up  the  dinner-service  and  the  ham  we  had 
cooked  at  our  house  yesterday,  and  Betty  is  coming  direct- 
ly with  the  garnish  and  the  plate.  We  shall  get  our  good 
Mrs.  Crewe  through  her  troubles  famously.  Dear  tiny  wom- 
an !  You  should  have  seen  her  lift  up  her  hands  yesterday, 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  227 

and  pray  heaven  to  take  her  before  ever  she  should  have  an- 
other collation  to  get  ready  for  the  Bishop.  She  said, 'It's 
bad  enough  to  have  the  Archdeacon,  though  he  doesn't  want 
half  so  many  jelly-glasses.  I  wouldn't  mind,  Janet,  if  it  was 
to  feed  all  the  old  hungry  cripples  in  Milby ;  but  so  much 
trouble  and  expense  for  people  who  eat  too  much  every  day 
of  their  lives !'  We  had  such  a  cleaning  and  furbishing  up 
of  the  sitting-room  yesterday!  Nothing  will  ever  do  away 
with  the  smell  of  Mr.  Crewe's  pipes,  you  know  ;  but  we  have 
thrown  it  into  the  background  with  yellow  soap  and  dry  lav- 
ender. And  now  I  must  run  away.  You  will  come  to  church, 
mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  wouldn't  lose  such  a  pretty  sight.  It 
does  my  old  eyes  good  to  see  so  many  fresh  young  faces.  Is 
your  husband  going  ?" 

"  Yes,  Robert  will  be  there.  I've  made  him  as  neat  as  a 
new  pin  this  morning,  and  he  says  the  Bishop  will  think  him 
too  buckish  by  half.  I  took  him  into  Mammy  Dempster's 
room  to  show  himself.  We  hear  Tryan  is  making  sure  of  the 
Bishop's  support ;  but  we  shall  see.  I  would  give  my  crook- 
ed guinea,  and  all  the  luck  it  will  ever  bring  me,  to  have  him 
beaten,  for  I  can't  endure  the  sight  of  the  man  coming  to  har- 
ass dear  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crewe  in  their  last  days.  Preach- 
ing the  Gospel  indeed  !  That  is  the  best  Gospel  that  makes 
every  body  happy  and  comfortable,  isn't  it,  mother  ?" 

*'  Ah,  child,  I'm  afraid  there's  no  Gospel  will  do  that  here 
below." 

"  Well,  I  can  do  something  to  comfort  Mrs.  Crewe,  at  least ; 
so  give  me  a  kiss,  and  good-bye  till  church-time." 

The  mother  leaned  back  in  her  chair  when  Janet  was  gone 
and  sank  into  a  painful  reverie.  When  our  life  is  a  continu- 
ous trial,  the  moments  of  respite  seem  only  to  substitute  the 
heaviness  of  dread  for  the  heaviness  of  actual  suffering :  the 
curtain  of  cloud  seems  parted  an  instant  only  that  we  may 
measure  all  its  horror  as  it  hangs  low,  black,  and  imminent,  in 
contrast  with  the  transient  brightness ;  the  water-drops  that 
visit  the  parched  lips  in  the  desert  bear  with  them  only  the 
keen  imagination  of  thirst.  Janet  looked  glad  and  tender  now 
— but  what  scene  of  misery  was  coming  next  ?  She  was  too 
like  the  cistus-flowers  in  the  little  garden  before  the  window, 
that,  with  the  shades  of  evening,  might  lie  with  the  delicate 
white  and  glossy  dark  of  their  petals  trampled  in  the  roadside 
dust.  When  the  sun  had  sunk,  and  the  twilight  was  deepen- 
ing, Janet  might  be  sitting  there,  heated,  maddened,  sobbing 
out  her  griefs  with  selfish  passion,  and  wildly  wishing  her- 
self dead. 


228  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE, 

Mrs.  Raynor  had  been  reading  about  the  lost  sheep,  and 
the  joy  there  is  in  heaven  over  the  sinner  that  repenteth. 
Surely  the  eternal  love  she  believed  in  through  all  the  sadness 
of  her  lot,  would  not  leave  her  child  to  wander  farther  and 
farther  into  the  wilderness  till  there  was  no  turning ;  the  child 
so  lovely,  so  pitiful  to  others,  so  good,  till  she  was  goaded 
into  sin  by  woman's  bitterest  sorrows !  Mrs.  Raynor  had  her 
faith  and  her  spiritual  comforts,  though  she  was  not  in  the 
least  evangelical  and  knew  nothing  of  doctrinal  zeal.  I  fear 
most  of  Mr.  Tryan's  hearers  would  have  considered  her  desti- 
tute of  saving  knowledge,  and  I  am  quite  sure  she  had  no 
well-defined  views  on  justification.  Nevertheless,  she  read 
her  Bible  a  great  deal,  and  thought  she  found  divine  lessons 
there — how  to  bear  the  cross  meekly,  and  be  merciful.  Let 
us  hope  that  there  is  a  saving  ignorance,  and  that  Mrs.  Ray- 
nor was  justified  without  knowing  exactly  how. 

She  tried  to  have  hope  and  trust,  though  it  was  hard  to 
believe  that  the  future  would  be  any  thing  else  than  the  har- 
vest of  the  seed  that  was  being  sown  before  her  eyes.  But 
always  there  is  seed  being  sown  silently  and  unseen,  and 
everywhere  there  come  sweet  flowers  without  our  foresight 
or  labor.  We  reap  what  we  sow,  but  Nature  has  love  over 
and  above  that  justice,  and  gives  us  shadow  and  blossom  and 
fruit  that  spring  from  no  planting  of  ours. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MOST  people  must  have  agreed  with  Mrs.  Raynor  that  the 
Confirmation  that  day  was  a  pretty  sight,  at  least  when  those 
slight  girlish  forms  and  fair  young  faces  moved  in  a  white  rivu- 
let along  the  aisles,  and  flowed  into  kneeling  semicircles  under 
the  light  of  the  great  chancel  window,  softened  by  patches  of 
dark  old  painted  glass ;  and  one  would  think  that  to  look  on 
while  a  pair  of  venerable  hands  pressed  such  young  heads, 
and  a  venerable  face  looked  upward  for  a  blessing  on  them, 
would  be  very  likely  to  make  the  heart  swell  gently,  and  to 
moisten  the  eyes.  Yet  I  remember  the  eyes  seemed  very  dry 
in  Milby  Church  that  day,  notwithstanding  that  the  Bishop 
was  an  old  man,  and  probably  venerable  (for  though  he  was 
not  an  eminent  Grecian,  he  was  the  brother  of  a  Whig  lord) ; 
and  I  think  the  eyes  must  have  remained  dry  because  he  had 
small  delicate  womanish  hands  adorned  with  ruffles,  and,  in- 
stead of  laying  them  on  the  girls'  heads,  just  let  them  hover 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  229 

over  each  in  quick  succession,  as  if  it  were  not  etiquette  to 
touch  them,  and  as  if  the  laying  on  of  hands  were  like  the 
theatrical  embrace — part  of  the  play,  and  not  to  be  really  be- 
lieved in.  To  be  sure  there  were  a  great  many  heads,  and 
the  Bishop's  time  was  limited.  Moreover,  a  wig  can,  under 
no  circumstances,  be  affecting,  except  in  rare  cases  of  illusion ; 
and  copious  lawn-sleeves  can  not  be  expected  to  go  directly 
to  any  heart  except  a  washerwoman's. 

I  know,  Ned  Phipps,  who  knelt  against  me,  and  I  am  sure 
made  me  behave  much  worse  than  I  should  have  done  with- 
out him,  whispered  that  he  thought  the  Bishop  was  a  "  guy," 
and  I  certainly  remember  thinking  that  Mr.  Prendergast  look- 
ed much  more  dignified  with  his  plain  white  surplice  and 
black  hair.  He  was  a  tall  commanding  man,  and  read  the 
Liturgy  in  a  strikingly  sonorous  and  uniform  voice,  which  I 
tried  to  imitate  the  next  Sunday  at  home,  until  my  little  sis- 
ter began  to  cry,  and  said  I  was  "  yoaring  at  her." 

Mr.  Tryan  sat  in  a  pew  near  the  pulpit  with  several  other 
clergymen.  He  looked  pale,  and  rubbed  his  hand  over  his 
face  and  pushed  back  his  hair  oftener  than  usual.  Standing 
in  the  aisle  close  to  him,  and  repeating  the  responses  with 
edifying  loudness,  was  Mr.  Budd,  churchwarden  and  delegate, 
with  a  white  staff  in  his  hand  and  a  backward  bend  of  his 
small  head  and  person,  such  as,  I  suppose,  he  considered  suita- 
ble to  a  friend  of  sound  religion.  Conspicuous  in  the  gallery, 
too,  was  the  tall  figure  of  Mr.  Dempster,  whose  professional 
avocations  rarely  allowed  him  to  occupy  his  place  at  church. 

"There's  Dempster,"  said  Mrs.  Linnet  to  her  daughter 
Mary,  "  looking  more  respectable  than  usual,  I  declare.  He's 
got  a  fine  speech  by  heart  to  make  to  the  Bishop,  I'll  answer 
for  it.  But  he'll  be  pretty  well  sprinkled  with  snuff  before 
service  is  over,  and  the  Bishop  won't  be  able  to  listen  to  him 
for  sneezing,  that's  one  comfort." 

At  length  the  last  stage  in  the  long  ceremony  was  over, 
the  large  assembly  streamed  warm  and  weary  into  the  open 
afternoon  sunshine,  and  the  Bishop  retired  to  the  Parsonage, 
where,  after  honoring  Mrs.  Crewe's  collation,  he  was  to  give 
audience  to  the  delegates  and  Mr.  Tryan  on  the  great  ques- 
tion of  the  evening  lecture. 

Between  five  and  six  o'clock  the  Parsonage  was  once  more 
as  quiet  as  usual  under  the  shadow  of  its  tall  elms,  and  the 
only  traces  of  the  Bishop's  recent  presence  there  were  the 
wheel-marks  on  the  gravel,  and  the  long  table  with  its  garnish- 
ed dishes  awry,  its  damask  sprinkled  with  crumbs,  and  its  de- 
canters without  their  stoppers.  Mr.  Crewe  was  already 
calmly  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  opposite  sitting-room,  and  Ja- 


230  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

net  was  agreeing  with  Mrs.  Crewe  that  some  of  the  blanc- 
mange would  be  a  nice  thing  to  take  to  Sally  Martin,  while  the 
little  old  lady  herself  had  a  spoon  in  her  hand  ready  to  gath- 
er the  crumbs  into  a  plate,  that  she  might  scatter  them  on  the 
gravel  for  the  little  birds. 

Before  that  time  the  Bishop's  carriage  had  been  seen  driv- 
ing through  the  High  Street  on  its  way  to  Lord  Trufford's, 
where  he  was  to  dine.  The  question  of  the  lecture  was  de- 
cided, then  ? 

The  nature  of  the  decision  may  be  gathered  from  the  fol- 
lowing conversation  which  took  place  in  the  bar  of  the  Red 
Lion  that  evening. 

"  So  you're  done,  eh,  Dempster?"  was  Mr.  Pilgrim's  obser- 
vation, uttered  with  some  gusto.  He  was  not  glad  Mr.  Try- 
an  had  gained  his  point,  but  he  was  not  sorry  Dempster  was 
disappointed. 

"  Done,  sir  ?  Not  at  all.  It  is  what  I  anticipated.  I  knew 
we  had  nothing  else  to  expect  in  these  days,  when  the  Church 
is  infested  by  a  set  of  men  who  are  only  fit  to  give  out  hymns 
from  an  empty  cask,  to  tunes  set  by  a  journeyman  cobbler. 
But  I  was  not  the  less  to  exert  myself  in  the  cause  of  sound 
Churchmanship  for  the  good  of  the  town.  Any  coward  can 
fight  a  battle  when  he's  sure  of  winning ;  but  give  me  the 
man  who  has  pluck  to  fight  when  he's  sure  of  losing.  That's 
my  way,  sir ;  and  there  are  many  victories  worse  than  a  de- 
feat, as  Mr.  Tryan  shall  learn  to  his  cost." 

"  He  must  be  a  poor  shuperannyated  sort  of  a  bishop, 
that's  my  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  "  to  go  along  with  a 
cnpaLJTvnrjyff.fhr>rligt  lilro  Tryafl-  And,  for  my  part,  I  think 
we  should  be  as  well  wi'out  bishops,  if  they're  no  wiser  than 
that.  Where's  the  use  o'  havin'  thousands  a-ycar  an'  livin' 
in  a  pallis,  if  they  don't  stick  to  the  Church  ?" 

"  No.  There  you're  going  out  of  your  depth,  Tomlinson," 
said  Mr.  Dempster.  "  No  one  shall  hear  me  say  a  word 
against  Episcopacy — it  is  a  safeguard  of  the  Church ;  we 
must  have  ranks  and  dignities  there  as  well  as  everywhere 
else.  No,  sir !  Episcopacy  is  a  good  thing ;  but  it  may  hap- 
pen that  a  bishop  is  not  a  good  thing.  Just  as  brandy  is  a 
good  thing,  though  this  particular  brandy  is  British,  and  tastes 
like  sugared  rain-water  caught  down  the  chimney.  Here,  Rat- 
cliffe,  let  me  have  something  to  drink  a  little  less  like  a  de- 
coction of  sugar  and  soot." 

"  I  said  nothing  again'  Episcopacy,"  returned  Mr.  Tomlin- 
son. "  I  only  said  I  thought  we  should  do  as  well  wi'out  bish- 
ops ;  and  I'll  say  it  again  for  the  matter  o'  that.  Bishops  never 
brought  any  grist  to  my  mill." 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  •    231 

"  Do  you  know  when  the  lectures  are  to  begin  ?"  said  Mr. 
Pilgrim. 

"  They  are  to  begin  on  Sunday  next,"  said  Mr.  Dempster, 
in  a  significant  tone ;  "  but  I  think  it  will  not  take  a  long- 
sighted prophet  to  foresee  the  end  of  them.  It  strikes  me 
Mr.  Tryan  will  be  looking  out  for  another  curacy  shortly." 

"  He'll  not  get  many  Milby  people  to  go  and  hear  his  lec- 
tures after  a  while,  I'll  bet  a  guinea,"  observed  Mr.  Budd. 
"  I  know  I'll  not  keep  a  single  workman  on  my  ground  who 
either  goes  to  the  lecture  himself  or  lets  any  body  belonging 
to  him  go." 

"Nor  me  nayther,"  said  Mr.  Tomlinson.  "No  Tryanite 
shall  touch  a  sack  or  drive  a  wagon  o'  mine,  that  you  may 
depend  on.  An'  I  know  more  besides  me  as  are  o'  the  same 
mind." 

"Tryan  has  a  good  many  friends  in  the  town, though, and 
friends  that  are  likely  to  stand  by  him  too,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim. 
"I  should  say  it  would  be  as  well  to  let  him  and  his  lectures 
alone.  If  he  goes  on  preaching  as  he  does,  witli  such  a  con- 
stitution as  his,  he'll  get  a  relapsed  throat  by-and-by,  and 
you'll  be  rid  of  him  without  any  trouble." 

"We'll  not  allow  him  to  do  himself  that  injury,"  said  Mr. 
Dempster.  "  Since  his  health  is  not  good,  we'll  persuade 
him  to  try  change  of  air.  Depend  upon  it,  he'll  find  the 
climate  of  Milby  too  hot  for  him." 


CHAPTER  VH. 

MR.  DEMPSTER  did  not  stay  long  at  the  Red  Lion  that  even- 
tng.  He  was  summoned  home  to  meet  Mr.  Armstrong,  a 
wealthy  client,  and  as  he  was  kept  in  consultation  till  a  late 
hour,  it  happened  that  this  was  one  of  the  nights  on  which 
Mr.  Dempster  went  to  bed  tolerably  sober.  Thus  the  day, 
which  had  been  one  of  Janet's  happiest,  because  it  had  been 
spent  by  her  in  helping  her  dear  old  friend  Mrs.  Crewe,  ended 
for  her  with  unusual  quietude ;  and  as  a  bright  sunset  prom- 
ises a  fair  morning,  so  a  calm  lying  down  is  a  good  augury 
for  a  calm  waking.  Mr.  Dempster,  on  the  Thursday  morn- 
ing, was  in  one  of  his  best  humors,  and  though  perhaps  some 
of  the  good-humor  might  result  from  the  prospect  of  a  lucra- 
tive and  exciting  bit  of  business  in  Mr.  Armstrong's  probable 
lawsuit,  the  greater  part  was  doubtless  due  to  those  stirrings 
of  the  more  kindly,  heal  thy  sap  of  human  feeling0by  which  good- 


232  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

ness  tries  to  get  the  upper  hand  in  us  whenever  it  seems  to 
have  the  slightest  chance — on  Sunday  mornings,  perhaps, 
when  we  are  set  free  from  the  grinding  hurry  of  the  week, 
and  take  the  little  three-year-old  on  our  knee  at  breakfast  to 
share  our  egg  and  muffin  ;  in  moments  of  trouble,  when  death 
visits  our  roof  or  illness  makes  us  dependent  on  the  tend- 
ing hand  of  a  slighted  wife ;  in  quiet  talks  with  an  aged 
mother,  of  the  days  when  we  stood  at  her  knee  with  our  first 
picture-book,  or  wrote  her  loving  letters  from  school.  In 
the  man  whose  childhood  has  known  caresses  there  is  always 
a  fibre  of  memory  that  can  be  touched  to  gentle  issues,  and 
Mr.  Dempster,  whom  you  have  hitherto  seen  only  as  the  ora- 
tor of  the  Red  Lion,  and  the  drunken  tyrant  of  a  dreary  mid- 
night home,  was  the  first-born  darling  son  of  a  fair  little  mother. 
That  mother  was  living  still,  and  her  own  large  black  easy- 
chair,  where  she  sat  knitting  through  the  livelong  day,  was 
now  set  ready  for  her  at  the  breakfast-table,  by  her  son's  side, 
a  sleek  tortoise-shell  cat  acting  as  provisional  incumbent. 

"  Good-morning,  Mamsey  !  why,  you're  looking  as  fresh  as 
a  daisy  this  morning.  You're  getting  young  again,"  said  Mr. 
Dempster,  looking  up  from  his  newspaper  when  the  little  old 
lady  entered.  A  very  little  old  lady  she  was,  with  a  pale, 
scarcely  wrinkled  face,  hair  of  that  peculiar  white  which  tells 
that  the  locks  have  once  been  blond,  a  natty  pure  white  cap 
on  her  head,  and  a  white  shawl  pinned  over  her  shoulders. 
You  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  had  been  a  mignonne  blonde, 
strangely  unlike  her  tall,  ugly,  dingy-complexioned  son  ;  un- 
like her  daughter-in-law,  too,  whose  large-featured  brunette 
beauty  seemed  always  thrown  into  higher  relief  by  the  white 
presence  of  little  Mamsey.  The  unlikeness  between  Janet  and 
her  mother-in-law  went  deeper  than  outline  and  complexion, 
and  indeed  there  was  little  sympathy  between  them,  for  old 
Mrs.  Dempster  hadjiot-yul  luurired-  ta  b«li«¥e  that  her  son, 
Robert^wolrtd^ia^  the  right 

woman — a  meek  woman  like  herself,  who  would  have  borne 
him  children  and  been  a  deft,  orderly  housekeeper.  In  spite 
of  Janet's  tenderness  and  attention  to  her,  she  had  had  little 
love  for  her  daughter-in-law  from  the  first,  and  had  witnessed 
the  sad  growth  of  home-misery  through  long  years,  always 
with  a  disposition  to  lay  the  blame  on  the  wife  rather  than 
on  the  husband,  and  to  reproach  Mrs.  Raynor  for  encouraging 
her  daughter's  faults  by  a  too  exclusive  sympathy.  But  old 
Mrs.  Dempster  had  that  rare  gift  of  silence  and  passivity 
which  often  supplies  the  absence  of  mental  strength ;  and, 
whatever  were  her  thoughts,  she  said  no  word  to  aggravate 
the  domestic  discord.  Patient  and  mute  she  sat  at  her  knit- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  233 

ting  through  many  a  scene  of  quarrel  and  anguish ;  resolute- 
ly she  appeared  unconscious  of  the  sounds  that  reached  her 
ears,  and  the  facts  she  divined  after  she  had  retired  to  her 
bed ;  mutely  she  witnessed  poor  Janet's  faults,  only  register- 
ing them  as  a  balance  of  excuse  on  the  side  of  her  son.  .  The 
hard,  astute,  domineering  attorney  was  still  that  little  old 
woman's  pet,  as  he  had  been  when  she  watched  with  triumph- 
ant pride  his  first  tumbling  effort  to  march  alone  across  the 
nursery  floor.  "  See  what  a  good  son  he  is  to  me  !"  she 
often  thought.  "  Never  gave  me  a  harsh  word.  And  so  he 
might  have  been  a  good  husband." 

Oh,  it  is  piteous — that  sorrow  of  aged  women  !  In  early 
youth,  perhaps,  they  said  to  themselves,  "  I  shall  be  happy 
when  I  have  a  husband  to  love  me  best  of  all ;"  then,  when 
the  husband  was  too  careless,  "  My  child  will  comfort  me ;" 
then,  through  the  mother's  watching  and  toil,  "My  child  will 
repay  me  all  when  it  grows  up."  And  at  last,  after  the  long 
journey  •  of  years  has  been  wearily  travelled  through,  the 
mother's  heart  is  weighed  down  by  a  heavier  burden,  and  no 
hope  remains  but  the  grave. 

But  this  morning  old  Mrs.  Dempster  sat  down  in  her  easy- 
chair  without  any  painful,  suppressed  remembrance  of  the 
preceding  night. 

"  I  declare  mammy  looks  younger  than  Mrs.  Crewe,  who 
is  only  sixty-five,"  said  Janet.  "  Mrs.  Crewe  will  come  to  see 
you  to-day,  mammy,  and  tell  you  all  about  her  troubles  with 
the  Bishop  and  the  collation.  She'll  bring  her  knitting,  and 
you'll  have  a  regular  gossip  together." 

"  The  gossip  will  be  all  on  one  side,  then,  for  Mrs.  Crewe 
gets  so  very  deaf,  I  can't  make  her  hear  a  word.  And  if  I 
motion  to  her,  she  always  understands  me  wrong." 

"Oh,  she  will  have  so  much  to  tell  you  to-day,  you  will 
not  want  to  speak  yourself.  You,  who  have  patience  to  knit 
those  wonderful  counterpanes,  mammy,  must  not  be  impa- 
tient with  dear  Mrs.  Crewe.  Good  old  lady !  I  can't  bear 
her  to  think  she's  ever  tiresome  to  people,  and  you  know 
she's  very  ready  to  fancy  herself  in  the  way.  I  think  she 
would  like  to  shrink  up  to  the  size  of  a  mouse,  that  she  might 
run  about  and  do  people  good  without  their  noticing  her." 

"  It  isn't  patience  I  want,  God  knows ;  it's  lungs  to  speak 
loud  enough.  But  you'll  be  at  home  yourself,  I  suppose, 
this  morning  ;  and  you  can  talk  to  her  for  me." 

"  No,  mammy;  I  promised  poor  Mrs.  Lowme  to  go  and  sit 
with  her.  She's  confined  to  her  room,  and  both  the  Miss 
Lowmes  are  out ;  so  I'm  going  to  read  the  newspaper  to  hef 
and  amuse  her." 


234  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Couldn't  you  go  another  morning  ?  As  Mr.  Armstrong 
and  that  other  gentleman  are  coming  to  dinner,  I  should 
think  it  would  be  better  to  stay  at  home.  Can  you  trust  Bet- 
ty to  see  to  every  thing?  She's  new  to  the  place." 

"  Oh  I  couldn't  disappoint  Mrs.  Lowme ;  I  promised  her. 
Betty  will  do  very  well,  no  fear." 

Old  Mrs.  Dempster  was  silent  after  this,  and  began  to  sip 
her  tea.  The  breakfast  went  on  without  further  conversation 
for  some  time,  Mr.  Dempster  being  absorbed  in  the  papers. 
At  length,  when  he  was  running  over  the  advertisements, 
his  eye  seemed  to  be  caught  by  something  that  suggested  a 
new  thought  to  him.  He  presently  thumped  the  table  with 
an  air  of  exultation,  and  said,  turning  to  Janet, 

"  I've  a  capital  idea,  Gypsy !"  (that  was  his  name  for  his 
dark-eyed  wife  when  he  was  in  an  extraordinarily  good-hu- 
mor), "and  you  shall  help  me.  It's  just  what  you're  up  to." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  Janet,  her  face  beaming  at  the  sound 
of  the  pet  name,  now  heard  so  seldom.  "Any  thing  to  do 
with  conveyancing  ?" 

"  It's  a  bit  of  fun  worth  a  dozen  fees — a  plan  for  raising  a 
laugh  against  Tryan  and  his  gang  of  hypocrites." 

"  What  is  it  ?  Nothing  that  wants  a  needle  and  thread  I 
hope,  else  I  must  go  and  tease  mother." 

"  No,  nothing  sharper  than  your  wit — except  mine.  I'll 
tell  you  what  it  \s.  We'll  get  up  a  programme  of  the  Sun- 
day evening  lecture,  like  a  play-bill,  you  know — *  Grand  Per- 
formance of  the  celebrated  Mountebank,'  and  so  on.  We'll 
bring  in  the  Tryanites — old  Landor  and  the  rest — in  appro- 
priate characters.  Proctor  shall  print  it,  and  we'll  circulate 
it  in  the  town.  It  will  be  a  capital  hit." 

"  Bravo !"  said  Janet,  clapping  her  hands.  She  would 
just  then  have  pretended  to  like  almost  any  thing,  in  her 
pleasure  at  being  appealed  to  by  her  husband,  and  she  really 
did  like  to  laugh  at  the  Tryanites.  "  We'll  set  about  it  di- 
rectly, and  sketch  it  out  before  you  go  to  the  office.  I've 
got  Tryan's  sermons  up  stairs,  but  I  don't  think  there's  any 
thing  in  them  we  can  use.  I've  only  just  looked  into  them  ; 
they're  not  at  all  what  I  expected — dull,  stupid  things — 
nothing  of  the  roaring  fire-and-brimstone  sort  that  I  expect- 
ed." 

"  Roaring  ?  No  ;  Tryan's  as  soft  as  a  sucking  dove — one 
of  your  honey-mouthed  hypocrites.  Plenty  of  devil  and 
malice  in  him,  though,  I  could  see  that,  while  he  was  talking 
to  the  Bishop;  but  as  smooth  as  a  snake  outside.  He's  be- 
ginning a  single-handed  fight  with  me,  I  can  see — persuading 
my  clients  away  from  me.  We  shall  see  who  will  be  the 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  '^35 

first  to  cry  peccavi.  Milby  will  do  better  without  Mr.  Tryan 
than  without  Robert  Dempster,  I  fancy !  and  Milby  shall 
never  be  flooded  with  cant  as  long  as  I  can  raise  a  breakwa- 
ter against  it.  But  now,  get  the  breakfast  things  cleared 
away,  and  let  us  set  about  the  play-bill.  Come,  mamsey, 
come  and  have  a  walk  with  me  round  the  garden,  and  let 
us  see  how  the  cucumbers  are  getting  on.  I've  never  taken 
you  round  the  garden  for  an  age.  Come,  you  don't  want  a 
bonnet.  It's  like  walking  in  a  greenhouse  this  morning." 

"  But  she  will  want  a  parasol,"  said  Janet.  "  There's 
one  on  the  stand  against  the  garden-door,  Robert." 

The  little  old  lady  took  her  son's  arm  with  placid  pleasure. 
She  could  barely  reach  it  so  as  to  rest  upon  it,  but  he^in- 
clined  a  little  towards  her,  and  accommodated  his  heavy 
long-limbed  steps  to  her  feeble  pace.  The  cat  chose  to  sun 
herself  too,  and  walked  close  beside  them,  with  tail  erect,  rub- 
bing her  sleek  sides  against  their  legs, — too  well  fed  to  be  ex- 
cited by.the  twittering  birds.  The  garden  was  of  the  grassy, 
shady  kind,  often  seen  attached  to  old  houses  in  provincial 
towns  ;  the  apple-trees  had  had  time  to  spread  their  branch- 
es very  wide,  the  shrubs  and  hardy  perennial  plants  had 
grown  into  a  luxuriance  that  required  constant  trimming  to 
prevent  them  from  intruding  on  the  space  for  walking.  But 
the  farther  end,  which  united  with  green  fields,  was  open  and 
sunny. 

It  was  rather  sad,  and  yet  pretty,  to  see  that  little  group 
passing  out  of  the  shadow  into  the  sunshine,  and  out  of  the 
sunshine  into  the  shadow  again  :  sad,  because  this  tender- 
ness of  the  son  for  the  mother  was  hardly  more  than  a  nu- 
cleus of  healthy  life  in  an  organ  hardening  by  disease,  because 
the  man  who  was  linked  in  this  way  with  an  innocent  past, 
had  become  callous  in  worldliness,  fevered  by  sensuality,  en- 
slaved by  chance  impulses  ;  pretty,  because  it  showed  how 
hard  it  is  to  kill  the  deep-down  fibrous  roots  of  human  love 
and  goodness — how  the  man  from  whom  we  make  it  our 
pride  to  shrink,  has  yet  a  close  brotherhood  with  us  through 
some  of  our  most  sacred  feelings. 

As  they  were  returning  to  the  house,  Janet  met  them, 
and  said,  "  Now,  Robert,  the  writing  things  are  ready.  I 
shall  be  clerk,  and  Mat  Paine  can  copy  it  out  after." 

Mammy  once  more  deposited  in  her  arm-chair,  with  her 
knitting  in  her  hand,  and  the  cat  purring  at  her  elbow,  Janet 
seated  herself  at  the  table,  while  Mr.  Dempster  placed  him- 
self near  her,  took  out  his  snuif-box,  and  plentifully  suffusing 
himself  with  the  inspiring  powder,  began  to  dictate. 

What  he  dictated  we  shall  see  by-and-by. 


236  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER 

THE  next  day,  Friday,  at  five  o'clock  by  the  sun-dial,  the 
large  bow-window  of  Mrs.  Jerome's  parlor  was  open ;  and 
that  lady  herself  was  seated  within  its  ample  semicircle, 
having  a  table  before  her  on  which  her  best  tea-tray,  her  best 
china,  and  her  best  urn-rug  had  already  been  standing  in 
readiness  for  half  an  hour.  Mrs.  Jerome's  best  tea-service 
was  of  delicate  white  fluted  china,  with  gold  sprigs  upon  it — 
as  pretty  a  tea-service  as  you  need  wish  to  see,  and  quite 
good  enough  for  chimney  ornaments ;  indeed,  as  the  cups 
were  without  handles,  most  visitors  who  had  the  distinction 
of  taking  tea  out  of  them,  wished  that  such  charming  china 
had  already  been  promoted  to  that  honorary  position.  Mrs. 
Jerome  was  like  her  china,  handsome  and  old-fashioned. 
She  was  a  buxom  lady  of  sixty,  in  an  elaborate  lace  cap  fasten- 
ed by  a  frill  under  her  chin,  a  dark,  well-curled  front  concealing 
her  forehead,  a  snowy  neckerchief  exhibiting  its  ample  folds 
as  far  as  her  waist,  and  a  stiff  gray  silk  gown.  She  had  a 
clean  damask  napkin  pinned  before  her  to  guard  her  dress 
during  the  process  of  tea  making ;  her  favorite  geraniums  in 
the  bow-window  were  looking  as  healthy  as  she  could  de- 
sire ;  her  own  handsome  portrait,  painted  when  she  was  twen- 
ty years  younger,  was  smiling  down  on  her  with  agreeable 
flattery ;  and  altogether  she  seemed  to  be  in  as  peaceful 
and  pleasant  a  position  as  a  buxom,  well-dressed  elderly  lady 
need  desire.  But,  as  in  so  many  other  cases,  appearances 
were  decejrtive.^  Her  mind  WAtJ  greatly  peTlllibt'd  and  her 
temper  ruffled  by  the  fact  that  it  was  more  than  a  quarter 
past  five  even  by  the  losing  timepiece,  that  it  was  half  past 
by  her  large  gold  watch,  which  she  held  in  her  hand  as  if  she 
were  counting  the  pulse  of  the  afternoon,  and  that  by  the 
kitchen  clock,  which  she  felt  sure  was  not  an  hour  too  fast, 
it  had  already  struck  six.  The  lapse  of  time  was  rendered 
the  more  unendurable  to  Mrs.  Jerome  by  her  wonder  that 
Mr.  Jerome  could  stay  out  in  the  garden  with  Lizzie  in  that 
thoughtless  way,  taking  it  so  easily  that  tea-time  was  long 
past,  and  that,  after  all  the  trouble  of  getting  down  the  best 
tea-things,  Mr.  Tryan  would  not  come. 

This  honor  had  been  shown  to  Mr.  Tryan,  not  at  all  be- 
cause Mrs.  Jerome  had  any  high  appreciation  of  his  doc- 
trine or  of  his  exemplary  activity  as  a  pastor,  but  simply  be- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  z37 

cause  lie  was  a  "  Church  clergyman,"  and  as  such  was  re- 
garded by  her  with  the  same  sort  of  exceptional  respect  that 
a  white  woman  who  had  married  a  native  of  the  Society  Isl- 
ands might  be  supposed  to  feel  towards  a  white-skinned 
visitor  from  the  land  of  her  youth.  For  Mrs.  Jerome  had 
been  reared  a  Churchwoman,  and  having  attained  the  age  of 
thirty  lido  re  she  was  married,  had  felt  tin-  greate'STTBTnig- 
nance  in  the  first  instance  to  renouncing  the  religious  forms 
in  which  she  had  been  brought  up.  **  You  know,"  she  said 
in  confidence  to  her  Church  acquaintances,  "  I  wouldn't  give 
no  ear  at  all  to  Mr.  Jerome  at  fust ;  but  after  all,  I  begun  to 
think  as  there  was  a  many  things  worse  nor  goin'  to  chapel, 
an'  you'd  better  do  that  nor  not  pay  your  way.  Mr.  Jerome 
had  a  very  pleasant  manner  with  him,  an'  there  was  niver 
another  as  kept  a  gig,  an'  'ud  make  a  settlement  on  me  like 
him,  chapel  or  no  chapel.  It  seemed  very  odd  to  me  for  a 
long  while,  the  preachin'  without  book,  an'  the  stannin'  up 
to  one  long  prayer,  istid  o'  changin'  your  postur.  But  la  I 
there's  nothin'  as  you  mayn't  get  used  to  i'  time ;  you  can 
al'ys  sit  down,  you  know,  before  the  prayer's  done.  The 
ministers  say  pretty  nigh  the  same  things  as  the  Church  par- 
sons, by  what  I  could  iver  make  out,  an'  we're  out  o'  chapel 
i'  the  mornin'  a  deal  sooner  nor  they're  out  o'  church.  An* 
as  for  pews,  ours  is  a  deal  comfortabler  nor  any  i'  Milby 
Church." 

Mrs.  Jerome,  you  perceive,  had  not  a  keen  susceptibility 
to  shades  of  doctrine,  and  it  is  probable  that,  after  listening 
to  Dissenting  eloquence  for  thirty  years,  she  might  safely 
have  re-entered  the  Establishment  without  performing  any 
spiritual  quarantine.  Her  mind,  apparently,  was  of  that  non- 
porous,  flinty  character  which  is  not  in  the  least  danger  from 
surrounding  damp.  But  on  the  question  of  getting  start  of 
the  sun  on  the  day's  business,  and  clearing  her  conscience 
of  the  necessary  sum  of  meals  and  the  consequent  "  washing 
up  "  as  soon  as  possible,  so  that  the  family  might  be  well  in 
bed  at  nine,  Mrs.  Jerome  was  susceptible ;  and  the  present 
lingering  pace  of  things,  united  with  Mr.  Jerome's  unac- 
countable obliviousness,  Avas  not  to  be  borne  any  longer. 
So  she  rang  the  bell  for  Sally. 

"  Goodness  me,  Sally  !  go  into  the  garden  an'  see  after 
your  master.  Tell  him  it's  goin'  on  for  six,  an'  Mr.  Tryan 
'nil  niver  think  o'  comin'  now,  an'  it's  time  we  got  tea  over. 
An'  he's  lettin'  Lizzie  stain  her  frock,  I  expect,  among  them 
strawberry  beds.  Make  her  come  in  this  minute." 

No  wonder  Mr.  Jerome  was  tempted  to  linger  in  the  gar- 
den, for  though  the  house  was  pretty  and  well  deserved  ito 


238  SCENES    OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

name — "  the  White  House,"  the  tall  damask  roses  that  clus- 
tered over  the  porch  being  thrown  into  relief  by  rough  stuc- 
co of  the  most  brilliant  white,  yet  the  garden  and  orchards 
were  Mr.  Jerome's  glory,  as  well  they  might  be ;  and  there 
was  nothing  in  which  he  had  a  more  innocent  pride — peace 
to  a  good  man's  memory  !  all  his  pride  was  innocent — than 
in  conducting  a  hitherto  uninitiated  visitor  over  his  grounds, 
and  making  him  in  some  degree  aware  of  the  incomparable 
t  advantages  possessed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  White  House 
in  the  matter  of  red-streaked  apples,  russets,  northern  greens 
(excellent  for  baking),  swan-egg  pears,  and  early  vegetables, 
to  say  nothing  of  flowering  "  srubs,"  pink  hawthorns,  laven- 
der bushes  more  than  ever  Mrs.  Jerome  could  use,  and,  in 
short,  a  superabundance  of  every  thing  that  a  person  retired 
from  business  could  desire  to  possess  himself  or  to  share  with 
his  friends.  The  garden  was  one  of  those  old-fashioned  para- 
dises which  hardly  exist  any  longer  except  as  memories  of 
our  childhood :  no  finical  separation  between  flower  and 
kitchen  garden  there ;  no  monotony  of  enjoyment  for  one 
sense  to  the  exclusion  of  another ;  but  a  charming  paradisia- 
cal mingling  of  all  that  was  pleasant  to  the  eyes  and  good 
for  food.  The  rich  flower-border  running  along  every  walk, 
with  its  endless  succession  of  spring  flowers,  anemones,  auric- 
ulas, wall-flowers,  sweet-williams,  campanulas,  snap  dragons, 
and  tiger-lilies,  had  its  taller  beauties,  such  as  moss  and  Prov- 
ence voses,  varied  with  espalier  apple-trees;  the  crimson  of 
a  carnation  was  carried  out  in  the  lurking  crimson  of  the 
neighboring  strawberry-beds;  you  gathered  a  moss-rose  one 
moment  and  a  bunch  of  currants  the  next ;  you  were  in  a 
delicious  fluctuation  between  the  scent  of  jasmine  and  the 
juice  of  gooseberries.  Then  what  a  high  wall  at  one  end, 
flanked  by  a  summer-house  so  lofty,  that  after  ascending  its 
long  flight  of  steps  you  could  see  perfectly  well  there  was  no 
view  worth  looking  at ;  what  alcoves  and  garden-seats  in  all 
directions ;  and  along  one  side,  what  a  hedge,  tall,  and  firm, 
and  unbroken,  like  a  green  wall ! 

It  was  near  this  hedge  that  Mr.  Jerome  was  standing  when 
Sally  found  him.  He  had  set  down  the  basket  of  strawberries 
on  the  gravel,  and  had  lifted  up  little  Lizzie  in  his  arms  to 
look  at  a  bird's  nest.  Lizzie  peeped,  and  then  looked  at  her 
grandpa  with  round  blue  eyes,  and  then  peeped  again. 

"  D'ye  see  it,  Lizzie  ?"  he  whispered. 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered  in  return,  putting  her  lips  very  near 
grandpa's  face.  At  this  moment  Sally  appeared. 

"  Eh,  eh,  Sally,  what's  the  matter  ?    Is  Mr.  Tryan  come  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  an'  Missis  says  she's  sure  he  Avon't  come  now,  an' 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  239 

she  wants  you  to  come  in  an'  hev  tea.  Dear  heart,  Miss  Liz- 
zie, you've  stained  your  pinafore,  an'  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it's 
gone  through  to  your  frock.  There'll  be  fine  work !  Come 
alonk  wi'  me,  do." 

"  Nay,  nay,  nay,  we've  done  no  harm,  we've  done  no  harm, 
hev  we,  Lizzie  ?  The  wash-tub  '11  make  all  right  again." 

Sally,  regarding  the  wash-tub  from  a  different  point  of 
view,  -looked  sourly  serious,  and  hurried  away  with  Lizzie, 
who  trotted  submissively  along,  her  little  head  in  eclipse  un- 
der a  large  nankin  bonnet,  while  Mr.  Jerome  followed  leis- 
urely with  his  full  broad  shoulders  in  rather  a  stooping  pos- 
ture, and  his  large  good-natured  features  and  white  locks 
shaded  by  a  broad-brimmed  hat. 

"  Mr.  Jerome,  I  wonder  at  you,"  said  Mrs.  Jerome,  in  a  tone 
of  indignant  remonstrance,  evidently  sustained  by  a  deep  sense 
of  injury, as  her  husband  opened  the  parlor  door.  "When 
will  you  leave  off  invitin'  people  to  meals  an'  not  lettin'  'em 
know  the  time  ?  I'll  answer  for't,  you  niver  said  a  word  to 
Mr.  Try  an  as  we  should  take  tea  at  five  o'clock.  It's  just 
like  you !" 

"  Nay,  nay,  Susan,"  answered  the  husband  in  <t  soothing 
tone,  "  there's  nothin'  amiss.  I  told  Mr.  Tryan  as  we  took 
tea  at  five  punctial ;  mayhap  summat's  a  detainin'  on  him. 
lie's  a  deal  to  do,  an'  to  think  on,  remember." 

"  Why  it's  struck  six  i'  the  kitchen  a'ready.  It's  nonsense 
to  look  for  him  comin'  now.  So  you  may's  well  ring  for  th' 
urn.  Now  Sally's  got  th'  heater  in  the  fire,  we  may's  well 
hev  th'  urn  in,  though  he  doesn't  come.  I  niver  see'd  the 
like  o'  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  for  axin'  people  an'  givin'  me  the 
trouble  o'  gettin'  things  down  an'  hevin'  crumpets  made,  an' 
after  all  they  don't  come.  I  shall  hev  to  wash  every  one  o' 
these  tea-things  myself,  for  there's  no  trustin'  Sally — she'd 
break  a  fortin  i'  crockery  i'  no  time !" 

"  But  why  will  you  give  yourself  sich  trouble,  Susan  ?  Our 
every-day  tea-things  would  ha'  done  as  well  for  Mr.  Tryan, 
an'  they're  a  deal  convenenter  to  hold." 

"  Yes,  that's  just  your  way,  Mr.  Jerome,  you're  al'ys  a-find- 
in'  faut  wi'  my  chany,  because  I  bought  it  myself  afore  I  was 
married.  But  let  me  tell  you,  I  knowed  how  to  choose  chany 
if  I  didn't  know  how  to  choose  a  husband.  An'  where's  Liz- 
zie ?  You've  niver  left  her  i'  the  garden  by  herself,  with  her 
white  frock  on  an'  clean  stockins  ?" 

"  Be  easy,  my  dear  Susan,  be  easy ;  Lizzie's  come  in  wi' 
Sally.  She's  hevin'  her  pinafore  took  off,  I'll  be  bound.  Ah  ! 
there's  Mr.  Tryan  a-comin'  through  the  gate." 

.  Jerome  began  hastily  to  adjust  her  damask  napkin  and 


240  SCEXES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

the  expression  of  her  countenance  for  the  reception  of  the 
clergyman,  and  Mr.  Jerome  went  out  to  meet  his  guest,  whom 
he  greeted  outside  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Tryan,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tryan  ?  Welcome  to 
the  Whi^sJfckmee !  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  sir — I'm  glad  to  see 
you." 

If  you  had  heard  the  tone  of  mingled  good- will,  veneration, 
and  condolence  in  which  this  greeting  was  uttered,  even1  with- 
out seeing  the  face  that  completely  harmonized  with  it,  you 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  inferring  the  ground-notes  of  Mr. 
•JerwifC*S"'character.  To  a  fine  ear  that  tone  said  as  plainly 
as  possible — "  Whatever  recommends  itself  to  me,  Thomas 
Jerome,  as  piety  and  goodness,  shall  have  my  love  and  honor. 
Ah  friends,  this  pleasant  world  is  a  sad  one,  too,  isn't  it  ?  Let 
us  help  one  another,  let  us  help  one  another."  And  it  was 
entirely  owing  to  this  basis  of  character,  not  at  all  from  any 
clear  and  precise  doctrinal  discrimination,  that  Mr.  Jerome 
had  very  early  in  life  become  a  Dissenter.  In  his  boyish  days 
he  had  been  thrown  where  Dissent  seemed  to  have  the  bal- 
ance of  piety,  purity,  and  good  works  on  its  side,  and  to  be- 
come a  Dissenter  seemed  to  him  identical  with  choosing  God 
instead  of  mammon.  That  race  of  Dissenters  is  extinct  in 
these  days,  when  opinion  has  got  far  ahead  of  feeling,  and 
every  chapel-going  youth  can  fill  our  ears  with  the  advantages 
of  the  Voluntary  system,  the  corruptions  of  a  State  Church, 
and  the  Scriptural  evidence  that  the  first  Christians  were  Con- 
gregationalists.  Mr.  Jerome  knew  nothing  of  this  theoretic 
basis  for  Dissent,  and  in  the  utmost  extent  of  his  polemical 
discussion  he  had  not  gone  farther  than  to  question  whether 
a  Christian  man  was  bound  in  conscience  to  distinguish  Christ- 
mas and  Easter  by  any  peculiar  observance  beyond  the  eat- 
ing of  mince-pies  and  cheese-cakes.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
all  seasons  were  alike  good  for  thanking  God,  departing  from 
evil,  and  doing  well,  whereas  it  might  be  desirable  to  restrict 
the  period  for  indulging  in  unwholesome  forms  of  pastry. 
Mr.  Jerome's  dissent  being  of  this  simple,  non-polemical  kind, 
it  is  easy  to  understand  that  the  report  he  heard  of  Mr.  Tryan 
as  a  good  man  and  a  powerful  preacher,  who  was  stirring  the 
hearts  of  the  people,  had  been  enough  to  attract  him  to  the 
Paddiford  Church,  and  that  having  felt  himself  more  edified 
there  than  he  had  of  late  been  under  Mr.  Stickney's  discourses 
at  Salem,  he  had  driven  thither  repeatedly  in  the  Sunday  after- 
noons, and  had  sought  an  opportunity  of  making  Mr.  Tryan's 
acquaintance.  The  evening  lecture  was  a  subject  of  warm  in- 
terest with  him,  and  the  opposition  Mr.  Tryan  met  with  gave 
that  interest  a  strong  tinge  of  partisanship  ;  for  there  was  a 


JANETS    REPENTANCE.  241 

store  of  irascibility  in  Mr.  Jerome's  nature  which  must  find  a 
vent  somewhere,  and  in  so  kindly  and  upright  a  man  could 
only  find  it  in  indignation  against  those  whom  lie  held  to  be 
enemies  of  truth  and  goodness.  Mr.  Tryan  had  not  hitherto 
been  to  the  White  House,  but  yesterday,  meeting  Mr.  Jerome 
in  the  street,  he  had  at  once  accepted  the  invitation  to  tea, 
saying  there  was  something  he  wished  to  talk  about.  He  ap- 
peared worn  and  fatigued  now,  and  after  shaking  hands  with 
Mrs.  Jerome,  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  looked  out  on  the 
pretty  garden  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"  What  a  nice  place  you  have  here,  Mr.  Jerome  !  I've  not 
seen  any  thing  so  quiet  and  pretty  since  I  came  to  Milby.  On 
Paddiford  Common,  where  I  live,  you  know,  the  bushes  are 
all  sprinkled  with  soot,  and  there's  never  any  quiet  except  in 
the  dead  of  night." 

"  Dear  heart !  dear  heart !  That's  very  bad — and  for  you, 
too,  as  hev  to  study.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  for  you  to  be 
somewhere  'more  out  i'  the  country  like  ?" 

"  Oh  no  !  I  should  lose  so  much  time  in  going  to  and  fro, 
and  besides  I  like  to  be  among  the  people.  I've  no  face  to 
go  and  preach  resignation  to  those  poor  things  in  their  smoky 
air  and  comfortless  homes,  when  I  come  straight  from  every 
luxury  myself.  There  are  many  things  quite  lawful  for  other 
men,  which  a  clergyman  must  forego  if  he  would  do  any  good 
in  a  manufacturing  population  like  this." 

Here  the  preparations  for  tea  were  crowned  by  the  simul- 
taneous appearance  of  Lizzie  and  the  crumpet.  It  is  a  pretty 
surprise,  when  one  visits  an  elderly  couple,  to  see  a  little  fig- 
ure enter  in  a  white  frock  with  a  blond  head  as  smooth  as 
satin,  round  blue  eyes,  and  a  cheek  like  an  apple  blossom.  A 
toddling  little  girl  is  a  centre  of  common  feeling  which  makef 
the  most  dissimilar  people  understand  each  other:  and  Mr. 
Tryan  looked  at  Lizzie  with  that  quiet  pleasure  which  is  al- 
ways genuine. 

"  Here  we  are,  here  we  are  !"  said  proud  grandpapa.  "  You 
didn't  think  we'd  got  such  a  little  gell  as  this,  did  you, 
Mr.  Tryan  ?  Why,  it  seems  but  th'  other  day  since  her  moth- 
er was  just  such  another.  This  is  our  little  Lizzie,  this  is. 
Come  an'  shake  hands  wi'  Mr.  Tryan,  Lizzie ;  come." 

Lizzie  advanced  without  hesitation,  and  put  out  one  hand, 
while  she  fingered  her  coral  necklace  with  the  other,  and  look- 
ed up  into  Mr.  Tryan's  face  with  a  reconnoitring  gaze.  He 
stroked  the  satin  head,  and  said  in  his  gentlest  voice,  "  How 
do  you  do,  Lizzie  ?  will  you  give  me  a  kiss  ?"  She  put  up 
her  little  bud  of  a  mouth,  and  then  retreating  a  little  and 
glancing  down  at  her  frock,  said, 

11 


'Lizzie  advanced  without  hesitation,  and  put  out  one  hand,  while  she  fingertd 
her  coral  necklace  with  the  other." — PAGE  241. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  243 

"  Dit  id  my  noo  fock.  I  put  it  on  'tod  you  wad  toming. 
Tally  taid  you  wouldn't  'ook  at  it." 

"Hush,  hush,  Lizzie,  little  gells  must  be  seen  and  not 
heard,"  said  Mrs.  Jerome ;  while  grandpapa,  winking  signifi- 
cantly, and  looking  radiant  with  delight  at  Lizzie's  extraor- 
dinary promise  of  cleverness,  set  her  up  on  her  high  cane- 
chair  "by  the  side  of  grandma,  who  lost  no  time  in  shielding 
the  beauties  of  the  new  frock  with  a  napkin. 

"  Well  now,  Mr.  Tryan,"  said  Mr.  Jerome,  in  a  very  serious 
tone,  when  tea  had  been  distributed,  "  let  me  hear  how  you're 
a-goin'  on  about  the  lectur.  When  I  was  i'  the  town  yester- 
day, I  heared  as  there  was  pessecutin'  schemes  a-bein'  laid 
again'  you.  I  fear  me  those  raskill'y  '11  mek  things  very  on- 
pleasant  to  you." 

"I've  no  doubt  they  will  attempt  it;  indeed,  I  quite  ex- 
pect there  will  be  a  regular  mob  got  up  on  Sunday  evening, 
as  there  was  when  the  delegates  returned,  on  purpose  to  an- 
noy me  and  the  congregation  on  our  way  to  church." 

"  Ah,  they're  capible  o'  any  thing,  such  men  as  Dempster 
an'  Budd ;  an'  Tomlinson  backs  'em  wi'  money,  though  he 
can't  wi'  brains.  Howiver,  Dempster's  lost  one  client  by  his 
wicked  doins,  an'  I'm  deceived  if  he  won't  lose  more  nor  one. 
I  little  thought,  Mr.  Tryan,  when  I  put  my  affairs  into  his 
hands  twenty  'ear  ago  this  Michaelmas,  as  he  was  to  turn  out 
a  pessecutor  o'  religion.  I  niver  lighted  on  a  cliverer,  prom- 
isiner  young  man  nor  he  was  then.  They  talked  of  his  bein' 
fond  of  a  extry  glass  now  an'  then,  but  niver  nothin'  like  what 
he's  come  to  since.  An'  it's  head-piece  you  must  look  for  in 
a  lawyer,  Mr.  Tryan,  it's  head-piece.  His  wife,  too,  was  al'ys 
an  uncommon  favorite  o'  mine — poor  thing !  I  hear  sad 
stories  about  her  now.  But  she's  druv  to  it,  she's  druv  to  it, 
Mr.  Tryan.  A  tender-hearted  woman  to  the  poor,  she  is,  as 
iver  lived;  an'  as  pretty-spoken  a  woman  as  you  need  wish 
to  talk  tp.  Yes !  I'd  al'ys  a  likin'  for  Dempster  an'  his  wife, 
spite  o'  ivery  thing.  But  as  soon  as  iver  I  heared  o'  that  dil- 
egate  business,  I  says,  says  I,  that  man  shall  hev  no  more  to 
do  wi'  my  affairs.  It  may  put  me  t'  inconvenience,  but  I'll 
encourage  no  man  as  pessecutes  religion." 

"  He  is  evidently  the  brain  and  hand  of  the  persecution," 
said  Mr.  Tryan.  "There  may  be  a  strong  feeling  against 
me  in  a  large  number  of  the  inhabitants — it  must  be  so  from 
the  great  ignorance  of  spiritual  things  in  this  place.  But  I 
fancy  there  would  have  been  no  formal  opposition  to  the 
lecture,  if  Dempster  had  not  planned  it.  I  am  not  myself  the 
least  alarmed  at  any  thing  he  can  do ;  he  will  find  I  am  not 
to  be  cowed  or  driven  away  by  insult  or  personal  danger. 


244  SCENES   OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

God  has  sent  me  to  this  place,  and,  by  His  blessing,  I'll  not 
shrink  from  any  thing  I  may  have  to  encounter  in  doing  His 
work  among  the  people.  But  I  feel  it  right  to  call  on  all 
those  who  know  the  value  of  the  Gospel,  to  stand  by  me 
publicly.  I  think — and  Mr.  Landor  agrees  with  me — that  it 
will  be  well  for  my  friends  to  proceed  with  me  in  a  body  to 
the  church  on  Sunday  evening.  Dempster,  you  know,  has 
pretended  that  almost  all  the  respectable  inhabitants  are  op- 
posed to  the  lecture.  Now,  I  wish  that  falsehood  to  be  visi- 
bly contradicted.  What  do  you  think  of  the  plan  ?  I  have 
to<lay  been  to  see  several  of  my  friends,  who  will  make  a 
point  of  being  there  to  accompany  me,  and  will  communicate 
with  others  on  the  subject." 

"  I'll  make  one,  Mr.  Tryan,  I'll  make  one.  You  shall  not 
be  wantin1  in  any  support  as  I  can  give.  Before  you  come 
to  it,  sir,  Milby  was  a  dead  an'  dark  place;  you  are  the  fust 
man  i'  the  church  to  my  knowledge  as  has  brought  the  word 
o'  God  home  to  the  people;  an'  I'll  stan'  by  you,  sir,  I'll  stan' 
by  you.  I'm  a  Dissenter,  Mr.  Tryan ;  I've  been  a  Dissenter 
ever  sin'  I  was  fifteen  'ear  old;  but  show  me  good  i'  the 
Church,  an'  I'm  a  Churchman  too.  When  I  was  a  boy  I 
lived  at  Tilston  ;  you  mayn't  know  the  place  ;  the  best  part 
o'  the  land  there  belonged  to  Squire  Sandeman ;  he'd  a  club- 
foot,  had  Squire  Sandeman — lost  a  deal  o'  money  by  canal 
shares.  Well,  sir,  as  I  was  sayin',  I  lived  at  Tilston,  an'  the 
rector  there  was  a  terrible  drinkin',  fox-huntin'  man ;  you 
niver  seed  such  a  parish  i'  your  time  for  wickedness ;  Milby's 
nothin'  to  it.  Well,  sir,  my  father  was  a  workin'  man,  an' 
couldn't  afford  to  gi'  me  ony  eddication,  so  I  went  to  a  night- 
school  as  was  kep'  by  a  Dissenter,  one  Jacob  Wright ;  an' 
it  was  from  that  man,  sir,  as  I  got  my  little  schoolin'  an' 
my  knowledge  o'  religion.  I  went  to  chapel  wi'  Jacob — 
lie  was  a  good  man  was  Jacob — an'  to  chapel  I've  been  iver 
since.  But  I'm  no  enemy  o'  the  Church,  sir,  when  the  Church 
brings  light  to  the  ignorant  and  the  sinful ;  an'  that's  what 
you're  a-doin',  Mr.  Tryan.  Yes,  sir,  I'll  stan'  by  you ;  I'll 
go  to  church  wi'  you  o'  Sunday  evenin'." 

"  You'd  far  better  stay  at  home,  Mr.  Jerome,  if  I  may  give 
my  opinion,"  interposed  Mrs.  Jerome.  "  It's  not  as  I  hevn't 
ivery  respect  for  you,  Mr.  Tryan,  but  Mr.  Jerome  'ull  do  you 
no  good  by  his  interferin'.  Dissenters  are  not  at  all  looked 
on  i'  Milby,  an'  he's  as  nervous  as  iver  he  can  be ;  he'll  come 
back  as  ill  as  ill,  an'  niver  let  me  hev  a  wink  o'  sleep  all 
night." 

Mrs.  Jerome  had  been  frightened  at  the  mention  of  a  mob, 
and  her  retrospective  regard  for  the  religious  communion  of 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  245 

her  youth  by  no  means  inspired  her  with  the  temper  of  a 
martyr.  Her  husband  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of" 
tender  and  grieved  remonstrance,  which  might  have  been 
that  of  the  patient  patriarch  on  the  memorable  occasion 
when  he  rebuked  his  wife. 

"  Susan,  Susan,  let  me  beg  on  you  not  to  oppose  me, 
and  put  stumblin'-blocks  i'  the  way  o'  doin'  what's  right.  I 
can't  give  up  my  conscience,  let  me  give  up  what  else  I 
may."" 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Tryan,  feeling  slightly  uncomforta- 
ble, "  since  you  are  not  very  strong,  my  dear  sir,  it  will  be 
well,  as  Mrs.  Jerome  suggests,  that  you  should  not  run  the 
risk  of  any  excitement." 

"  Say  no  more,  Mr.  Tryan.  I'll  stan'  by  you,  sir.  It's  my 
duty.  It's  the  cause  o'  God,  sir ;  it's  the  cause  o'  God." 

Mr.  Tryan  obeyed  his  impulse  of  admiration  and  grati- 
tude, and  put  out  his  hand  to  the  white-haired  old  man,  say- 
ing, "  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  thank  you." 

Mr.  Jerome  grasped  the  proffered  hand  in  silence,  and  then 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  casting  a  regretful  look  at 
his  wife,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Why  don't  you  feel  with 
me,  Susan  ?" 

The  sympathy  of  this  simple-minded  old  man  was  more 
precious  to  Mr.  Tryan  than  any  mere  onlooker  could  have 
imagined.  To  persons  possessing  a  great  deal  of  that  facile 
psychology  which  pi-ejudges  individuals  by  means  of  formu- 
lae, and  casts  them,  without  further  trouble,  into  duly  letter- 
ed pigeon-holes,  the  Evangelical  curate  might  seem  to  be 
doing  simply  what  all  other  men  like  to  do — carrying  out 
objects  which  were  identified  not  only  with  his  theory,  which 
is  but  a  kind  of  secondary  egoism,  but  also  with  the  prima- 
ry egoism  of  his  feelings.  Opposition  may  become  sweet  to 
a  man  when  he  has  christened  it  persecution :  a  self-obtru- 
sive, over-hasty  reformer  complacently  disclaiming  all  merit, 
Avhile  his  friends  call  him  a  martyr,  has  not  in  reality  a  ca- 
reer the  most  arduous  to  the  fleshly  mind.  But  Mr.  Tryan 
was  not  cast  in  the  mould  of  the  gratuitous  martyr.  With 
a  power  of  persistence  which  had  been  often  blamed  as  ob- 
stinacy, he  had  an  acute  sensibility  to  the  very  hatred  or 
ridicule  he  did  not  flinch  from  provoking.  Every  form  of 
disapproval  jarred  him  painfully ;  and,  though  he  fronted  his 
opponents  manfully,  and  often  with  considerable  warmth  of 
temper,  he  had  no  pugnacious  pleasure  in  the  contest.  It 
was  one  of  the  weaknesses  of  his  nature  to  be  too  keenly 
alive  to  every  harsh  wind  of  opinion  ;  to  wince  under  the 
frowns  of  the  foolish;  to  be  irritated  by  the  injustice  of 


246  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

those  who  could  not  possibly  have  the  elements  indispensa- 
ble for  judging  him  rightly ;  and  with  all  this  acute  sensi- 
bility to  blame,  this  dependence  on  sympathy,  he  had  for 
years  been  constrained  into  a  position  of  antagonism.  No 
wonder,  then,  that  good  old  Mi-.  Jerome's  cordial  words  were 
balm  to  him.  He  had  often  been  thankful  to  an  old  woman 
for  saying  "  God  bless  you ;"  to  a  little  child  for  smiling  at 
him ;  to  a  dog  for  submitting  to  be  patted  by  him. 

Tea  being  over  by  this  time,  Mr.  Tryan  proposed  a  walk 
in  the  garden  as  a  means  of  dissipating  all  recollection  of  the 
recent  conjugal  dissidence.  Little  Lizzie's  appeal,  "  Me  go, 
grandpa  !"  could  not  be  rejected,  so  she  was  duly  bonneted 
and  pinafored,  and  then  they  turned  out  into  the  evening  sun- 
shine. Not  Mrs.  Jerome,  however;  she  had  a  deeply-medi- 
tated plan  of  retiring  ad  interim  to  the  kitchen  and  washing 
up  the  best  tea-things,  as  a  mode  of  getting  forward  with  the 
sadly-retarded  business  of  the  day." 

"This  way,  Mr.  Tryan,  this  way,"  said  the  old  gentleman  ; 
"  I  must  take  you  to  my  pastur  fust,  an'  show  you  our  cow — 
the  best  milker  i'  the  county.  An'  see  here  at  these  back- 
buildin's,  how  convenent  the  dairy  is  ;  I  planned  it  ivery  bit 
myself.  An'  here  I've  got  my  little  carpenter's  shop  an'  my 
blacksmith's  shop ;  I  do  no  end  o'  jobs  here  myself.  I  niv- 
er  could  bear  to  be  idle,  Mr.  Tryan ;  I  must  al'ys  be  at  some- 
thin'  or  other.  It  was  time  for  me  to  lay  by  business  an' 
mek  room  for  younger  folks.  I'd  got  money  enough,  wi'  only 
one  daughter  to  leave  it  to,  an'  I  says  to  myself,  says  I,  it's 
time  to  leave  off  moitherin'  myself  wi'  this  world  so  much, 
an'  give  more  time  to  thinkin'  of  another.  But  there's  a  many 
hours  atween  getting  up  an'  lyin'  down,  an'  thoughts  are  no 
cumber ;  you  can  move  about  wi'  a  good  many  on  'em  in  your 
head.  See,  here's  the  pastur." 

A  very  pretty  pasture  it  was,  where  the  large-spotted, 
short -horned  cow  quietly  chewed  the  cud  as  she  lay  and 
looked  sleepily  at  her  admirers — a  daintily-trimmed  hedge 
all  round,  dotted  here  and  there  with  a  mountain-ash  or  a 
cherry-tree. 

"  I've  a  good  bit  more  land  besides  this,  worth  your  while 
to  look  at,  but  mayhap  it's  farther  nor  you'd  like  to  walk  now. 
Bless  you  !  I've  welly  an  acre  o'  potato-ground  yonders ; 
I've  a  good  big  family  to  supply,  you  know."  (Here  Mr. 
Jerome  winked  and  smiled  significantly.)  "An'  that  puts 
me  i'  mind,  Mr.  Tryan,  o'  summat  I  wanted  to  say  to  you. 
Clergymen  like  you,  I  know,  see  a  deal  more  poverty  an'  that, 
than  other  folks,  an'  hev  a  many  claims  on  'em  more  nor  they 
can  well  meet ;  an'  if  you'll  mek  use  o'  my  purse  any  time,  oi 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  247 

let  me  know  where  I  can  be  o'  any  help,  I'll  tek  it  very  kind 
on  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  I  will  do  so,  I  promise  you.  I 
saw  a  sad  case  yesterday  ;  a  collier — a  line  broad-chested  fel- 
low about  thirty — was  killed  by  the  falling  of  a  wall  in  the 
Paddiford  colliery.  I  was  in  one  of  the  cottages  near,  when 
they  brought  him  home  on  a  door,  and  the  shriek  of  the  wife 
has  been  ringing  in  my  ears  ever  since.  There  are  three  lit- 
tle children.  Happily  the  woman  has  her  loom,  so  she  will 
be  able  to  keep  out  of  the  workhouse  ;  but  she  looks  very  del- 
icate." 

"  Give  me  her  name,  Mr.  Tryan,"  said  Mr.  Jerome,  drawing 
out  his  pocket-book.  "  I'll  call  an'  see  her." 

Deep  was  the  fountain  of  pity  in  the  good  old  man's 
heart !  He  often  ate  his  dinner  stintiugly,  oppressed  by  the 
thought  that  there  were  men,  women,  and  children,  with  no 
dinner  to  sit  down  to,  and  would  relieve  his  mind  by  going 
out  in  the  afternoon  to  look  for  some  need  that  he  could  sup- 
ply, some  honest  struggle  in  which  he  could  lend  a  helping 
hand.  That  any  living  being  should  want,  was  his  chief  sor- 
row ;  that  any  rational  being  should  waste,  was  the  next. 
Sally,  indeed,  having  been  scolded  by  master  for  a  too  lavish 
use  of  sticks  in  lighting  the  kitchen  fire,  and  various  instan- 
ces of  recklessness  with  regard  to  candle-ends,  considered 
him  "as  mean  as  aeny  think  ;"  but  he  had  as  kindly  a  warmth 
as  the  morning  sunlight,  and,  like  the  sunlight,  his  goodness 
shone  on  all  that  came  in  his  way,  from  the  saucy  rosy-cheeked 
lad  whom  he  delighted  to  make  happy  with  a  Christmas-box, 
to  the  pallid  sufferers  up  dim  entries,  languishing  under  the 
tardy  death  of  want  and  misery. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  Mr.  Tryari  to  listen  to  the  simple 
chat  of  the  old  man — to  walk  in  the  shade  of  the  incompara- 
ble orchard,  and  hear  the  story  of  the  crops  yielded  by  the  red- 
streaked  apple-tree,  and  the  quite  embarrassing  plentifulness 
of  the  summer-pears — to  drink  in  the  sweet  evening  breath 
of  the  garden,  as  they  sat  in  the  alcove — and  so,  for  a  short 
interval,  to  feel  the  strain  of  his  pastoral  task  relaxed. 

Perhaps  he  felt  the  return  to  that  task  through  the  dusty 
roads  all  the  more  painfully,  perhaps  something  in  that  quiet 
shady  home  had  reminded  him  of  the  time  before  he  had  tak- 
en on  him  the  yoke  of  self-denial.  The  strongest  heart  will 
faint  sometimes  under  the  feeling  that  enemies  are  Jbitter, 
and  that  friends  only  know  half  its  sorrows.  The  most  reso- 
lute soul  will  now  and  then  cast  back  a  yearning  look  in 
treading  the  rough  mountain-path,  away  from  the  greensward 
and  laughing  voices  of  the  valley.  However  it  was,  in  the 


248  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

nine  o'clock  twilight  that  evening,  when  Mr.  Tiyan  had  en- 
tered his  small  study  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door,  he 
threw  himself  into  the  chair  before  his  writing-table,  and, 
heedless  of  the  papers  there,  leaned  his  face  low  on  his  hand, 
and  moaned  heavily. 

It  is  apt  to  be  so  in  this  life,  I  think.  While  we  are  coldly 
discussing  a  man's  career,  sneering  at  his  mistakes,  blaming 
his  rashness,  and  labelling  his  opinions — "Evangelical  and 
narrrow,"  or  "  Latitudinarian  and  Pantheistic,"  or  "  Anglican 
and  supercilious  " — that  man,  in  his  solitude,  is  perhaps  shed- 
ding hot  tears  because  his  sacrifice  is  a  hard  one,  because 
strength  and  patience  are  failing  him  to  speak  the  difficult 
word,  and  do  the  difficult  deed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MR.  TRYAN  showed  no  such  symptoms  of  weakness  on  the 
critical  Sunday.  He  unhesitatingly  rejected  the  suggestion 
that  he  should  be  taken  to  church  in  Mr.  Landor's  carriage — 
a  proposition  which  that  gentleman  made  as  an  amendment  on 
the  original  plan,  when  the  rumors  of  meditated  insult  became 
alarming.  Mr.  Tryan  declared  he  would  have  no  precautions 
taken,  but  would  simply  trust  in  God  and  his  good  cause. 
Some  of  his  more  timid  friends  thought  this  conduct  rather 
defiant  than  wise,  and  reflecting  that  a  mob  has  great  tal- 
ent for  impromptu,  and  that  legal  redress  is  imperfect  sat- 
isfaction for  having  one's  head  broken  with  a  brickbat,  were 
beginning  to  question  their  consciences  very  closely  as  to 
whether  it  was  not  a  duty  they  owed  to  their  families  to 
stay  at  home  on  Sunday  evening.  These  timorous  persons, 
however,  were  in  a  small  minority,  and  the  generality  of  Mr. 
Tryan's  friends  and  hearers  rather  exulted  in  an  opportunity 
of  braving  insult  for  the  sake  of  a  preacher  to  whom  they 
were  attached  on  personal  as  well  as  doctrinal  grounds.  Miss 
Pratt  spoke  of  Cranmer,  Ridley,  and  Latimer,  and  observed 
that  the  present  crisis  afforded  an  occasion  for  emulating  their 
heroism  even  in  these  degenerate  times  ;  while  less  highly  in- 
structed persons,  whose  memories  were  not  well  stored  with 
precedents,  simply  expressed  their  determination,  as  Mr.  Je- 
rome had  done,  to  "  stan'  by  "  the  preacher  and  his  cause,  be- 
lieving it  to  be  the  "  cause  of  God." 

On  Sunday  evening,  then,  at  a  quarter  past  six,  Mr.  Tryan, 
setting  out  from  Mr.  Landor's  with  a  party  of  his  friends  who 


JANET'S  BEPENTANCE.  249 

had  assembled  there,  was  soon  joined  by  two  other  groups 
from  Mr.  Pratt's  and  Mr.  Dunn's  ;  and  stray  persons  on  their 
way  to  church  naturally  falling  into  rank  behind  this  leading 
file,  by  the  time  they  reached  the  entrance  of  Orchard  Street, 
Mr.  Tryan's  friends  formed  a  considerable  procession,  walking 
three  or  four  abreast.  It  was  in  Orchard  Street,  and  towards 
the  church  gates,  that  the  chief  crowd  was  collected  ;  and  at 
Mr.  Dempster's  drawing-room  window,  on  the  upper  floor,  a 
more  select  assembly  of  Anti-Tryanites  were  gathered  to 
witness  the  entertaining  spectacle  of  the  Tryanites  walking  to 
church  amidst  the  jeers  and  hootings  of  the  crowd. 

To  prompt  the  popular  wit  with  appropriate  sobriquets, 
numerous  copies  of  Mr.  Dempster's  playbill  were  posted  on 
the  walls,  in  suitably  large  and  emphatic  type.  As  it  is  pos- 
sible that  the  most  industrious  collector  of  mural  literature 
may  not  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  possess  himself  of 
this  production,  which  ought  by  all  means  to  be  preserved 
amongst  the  materials  of  our  provincial  religious  history,  I 
subjoin  a  faithful  copy. 

GRAND  ENTERTAINMENT!  ! ! 
To  be  given  at  Milby  on  Sunday  evening  next,  by  the 

FAMOUS  COMEDIAN,  TRY-IT-ON ! 
And  his  first-rate  company,  including  not  only  an 

UNPARALLELED  CAST  FOR  COMEDY  ! 
But  a  Large  Collection  of  reclaimed  and  converted  Animals; 

Among  the  rest 

A  Bear  who  used  to  dance! 

A  Rirrot,  once  given  to  siceariny!  ! 

A  IWyga/nous  Pig  ! ! ! 

and 
A  Monkey  who  used  to  catch  fleas  on  a  Sunday  I  tit 

Together  with  a 

Pair  of  regenerated  LINNETS  ! 

With  an  entirely  new  song  And  plumage. 

MB.  TRY-IT-ON 

Will  first  pass  through  the  streets,  in  procession,  with  his  unrivalled  Com- 
pany, warranted  to  have  their  eyes  turned  up  higher,  and  the  corners  of 
their  mouths  turned  down  lower,  than  any  other  company  of  Mountebanks 
in  this  circuit ! 

AFTER    WHICH 

The  Theatre  will  be  opened,  and  the  entertainment  will 

COMMENCE  AT  HALF-PAST  SIX, 

When  will  be  presented 
A  piece,  never  before  performed  on  any  stage,  entitled, 

THE  WOLF  IN  SHEEP'S  CLOTHING ; 

or 
THE  METHODIST  IN  A  MASK. 

Mr.  Boanerges  Soft  Sawder Mr.  TRY-IT-ON. 

Old  Ten-per-cent.  Godly Mr.  GANDER. 

Dr.  Feedemup Mr.  TONIC. 

Mr.  Litr.e-twig  Lady-winner Mr.  TRY-IT-ON. 

Miss  Piety  Bait-the-hook Miss  TONIC. 

Angelica Miss  SERAPHINA  TONIC. 

11* 


250  SCENES   OF    CLEKICAL   LIFE. 

After  which 

A  miscellaneous  Musical  interlude,  commencing  with 

The  Lamentations  of  Jerom-iah  ! 

In  nasal  recitative. 

To  be  followed  by 

The  favorite  Cackling  Quartette, 

t»y 

Two  Hen-birds  who  arc  no  chickens  ! 
The  well-known  counter-tenor,  Mr.  Done  and  a  Gander, 
lineally  descended  from  the  Goose  that  laid  golden  eggs ! 

To  conclude  with  a 
»         GRAND  CHORUS  by  the 
Entire  Orchestra  of  Converted  Animals  !  ! 

Bet  owing  to  the  imavpidable  absence  (from  illness)  of  the  Bulldog,  who  hat 
left  off  fighting,  Mr.  Tonic  has  kindly  undertaken,  at  a  moment's  notice,  to 
supply  the  "  bark  /" 

The  whole  to  conclude  with  a 

Screaming  farce  of 
THE    PULPIT    8NATCHER. 

Mr.  Saintly  Smooth-face Mr.  TRY-IT-ON 

Mr.  Worming  Sneaker Mr.  TRY-IT-ON    ! 

Mr.  All-grace  No-works Mr.  TRY-IT-ON    !  ! 

Mr.  Elect-and-Chosen  Apewell Mr.  TRY-IT-ON    !  !  ! 

Mr.  Malevolent  Prayerful Mr.  TRY-IT  ON    !  !  !  ! 

Mr.  Foist-himself-every where Mr.  TRY-IT-ON  !!!!!! 

Mr.  Flout-the-aged  Upstart : Mr.  TRY-IT-ON  !!!!!!! 


Admission  Free.    A  Collection  will  be  made  at  the  Doors. 
VivatHex.' 

This  satire,  though  it  presents  the  keenest  edge  of  Milby 
wit,  does  not  strike  you  as  lacerating,  I  imagine.  But  hatred 
is  like  fire — it  makes  even  light  rubbish  deadly.  And  Mr. 
Dempster's  sarcasms  were  not  merely  visible  on  the  walls ; 
they  were  reflected  in  the  derisive  glances,  and  audible  in  the 
jeering  voices  of  the  crowd.  Through  this  pelting  shower  of 
nicknames  and  bad  puns,  with  an  ad  libitum  accompaniment 
of  groans,  howls,  hisses,  and  hee-haws,  but  of  no  heavier  mis- 
siles, Mr.  Tryan  walked  pale  and  composed,  giving  his  arm  to 
old  Mr.  Landor,  whose  step  was  feeble.  On  the  other  side 
of  him  was  Mr.  Jerome,  who  still  walked  firmly  though  his 
shoulders  were  slightly  bowed. 

Outwardly  Mr.  Tryan  was  composed,  but  inwardly  he  was 
suffering  acutely  from  these  tones  of  hatred  and  scorn.  How- 
ever strong  his  consciousness  of  right,  he  found  it  no  stronger 
armor  against  such  weapons  as  derisive  glances  and  virulent 
words,  than  against  stones  and  clubs  :  his  conscience  was  in 
repose,  but  his  sensibility  was  bruised. 

Once  more  only  did  the  Evangelical  curate  pass  up  Orchard 
Street  followed  by  a  train  of  friends  ;  once  more  only  was 
there  a  crowd  assembled  to  witness  his  entrance  through  the 
church  gates.  But  that  second  time  no  voice  was  heard  above 
a  whisper,  and  the  whispers  were  words  of  sorrow  and  bless- 


JAKET'S  REPENTANCE.  251 

ing.  That  second  time,  Janet  Dempster  was  not  looking  on 
in  scorn  and  merriment ;  her  eyes  were  worn  with  grief  and 
watching,  and  she  was  following  her  beloved  friend  and  pas- 
tor to  the  grave. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HISTORY,  we  know,  is  apt  to  repeat  itself,  and  to  foist  very 
old  incidents  upon  us  with  only  a  slight  change  of  costume. 
From  the  time  of  Xerxes  downward,  we  have  seen  generals 
playing  the  braggadocio  at  the  outset  of  their  campaigns,  and 
conquering  the  enemy  with  the  greatest  ease  in  after-dinner 
speeches.  But  events  are  apt  to  be  in  disgusting  discrepancy 
with  the  anticipations  of  the  most  ingenious  tacticians ;  the 
difficulties  of  the  expedition  are  ridiculously  at  variance  with 
able  calculations;  the  enemy  has  the  impudence  not  to  fall 
into  confusion  as  had  been  reasonably  expected  of  him ;  the 
mind  of  the  gallant  general  begins  to  be  distracted  by  news 
of  intrigues  against  him  at  home,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
handsome  compliments  he  paid  to  Providence  as  his  undoubt- 
ed patron  before  setting  out,  there  seems  every  probability 
that  the  Te  Deums  will  be  all  on  the  other  side. 

So  it  fell  out  with  Mr.  Dempster  in  his  memorable  cam- 
paign against  the  Anti-Try  an  ites.  After  all  the  premature 
triumph  of  the  return  from  Elmstoke,  the  battle  of  the  Even- 
ing^ Lecture  had  been  lost ;  the  enemy  was  in  possession  of 
thtrfttlA,  a  lid  lliu  ullllo^TTiope  remaining  was,  that  by  a  har- 
assing guerrilla  warfare  he  might  be  driven  to  evacuate  the 
country. 

For  some  time  this  sort  of  warfare  was  kept  up  with  con- 
siderable spirit.  The  shafts  of  Milby  ridicule  were  made  more 
formidable  by  being  poisoned  with  calumny;  and  very  ugly 
stories,  narrated  with  circumstantial  minuteness,  were  soon  in 
circulation  concerning  Mr.  Tryan  and  his  hearers,  from  which 
stories  it  was  plainly  deducible  that  Evangelicalism  led  by  a 
necessary  consequence  to  hypocritical  indulgence  in  vice. 
Some  old  friendships  were  broken  asunder,  and  there  were 
near  relations  who  felt  that  religious  differences,  unmitigated 
by  any  prospect  of  a  legacy,  were  a  sufficient  ground  for  exhib- 
iting their  family  antipathy.  Mr.  Budd  harangued  his  work- 
men, and  threatened  them  with  dismissal  if  they  or  their 
families  were  known  to  attend  the  evening  lecture ;  and  Mr. 
Tomlinson,  on  discovering  that  his  foreman  was  a  rank  Try- 
anite.  blustered  to  a  great  extent,  and  would  have  cashiered 


252  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

that  valuable  functionary  on  the  spot,  if  such  a  retributive 
procedure  had  not  been  inconvenient. 

On  the  whole,  however,  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  the 
balance  of  substantial  loss  was  on  the  side  of  the  Anti-Tryan- 
ites.  Mr.  Pratt,  indeed,  had  lost  a  patient  or  two  besides 
Mr.  Dempster's  family  ;  but  as  it  was  evident  that  Evangeli- 
calism had  not  dried  up  the  stream  of  his  anecdote,  or  in  the 
least  altered  his  view  of  any  lady's  constitution,  it  is  probable 
that  a  change  accompanied  by  so  few  outward  and  visible 
signs,  was  rather  the  pretext  than  the  ground  of  his  dismissal 
in  those  additional  cases.  Mr.  Dunn  was  threatened  with  the 
loss  of  several  good  customers,  Mrs.  Phipps  and  Mrs.  Lowme 
having  set  the  example  of  ordering  him  to  send  in  his  bill ; 
and  the  draper  began  to  look  forward  to  his  next  stock-taking 
with  an  anxiety  which  was  but  slightly  mitigated  by  the  par- 
allel his  wife  suggested  between  his  own  case  and  that  of 
Shadrach,  Meshech,  and  Abednego,  who  were  thrust  into  a 
burning  fiery  furnace.  For,  as  he  observed  to  her  the  next 
morning,  with  that  perspicacity  which  belongs  to  the  period 
of  shaving,  whereas  their  deliverance  consisted  in  the  fact 
that  their  linen  and  woollen  goods  were  not  consumed,  his  own 
deliverance  lay  in  precisely  the  opposite  result.  But  con- 
venience, that  admirable  branch  system  from  the  main  line 
of  self-interest,  makes  us  all  fellow-helpers  in  spite  of  adverse 
resolutions.  It  is  probable  that  no  speculative  or  theological 
hatred  would  be  ultimately  strong  enough  to  resist  the  per- 
suasive power  of  convenience  :  that  a  latitudinarian  baker, 
whose  bread  was  honorably  free  from  alum,  would  command 
the  custom  of  any  dyspeptic  Puseyite ;  that  an  Arminian 
with  the  toothache  would  prefer  a  skillful  Calvinistic  dentist 
to  a  bungler  stanch  against  the  doctrines  of  Election  and  Fi- 
nal Perseverance,  who  would  be  likely  to  break  the  tooth  in 
his  head;  and  that  a  Plymouth  Brother,  who  had  a  well-fur- 
nished grocery  shop  in  a  favorable  vicinage,  would  occasion- 
ally have  the  pleasure  of  furnishing  sugar  or  vinegar  to  or- 
thodox families  that  found  themselves  unexpectedly  "  out  of" 
those  indispensable  commodities.  In  this  persuasive  power 
of  convenience  lay  Mr.  Dunn's  ultimate  security  from  martyr- 
dom. His  drapery  was  the  best  in  Milby ;  the  comfortable 
use  and  wont  of  procuring  satisfactory  articles  at  a  moment's 
notice  proved  too  strong  for  Anti-Tryanite  zeal ;  and  the 
draper  could  soon  look  forward  to  his  next  stock-taking  with- 
out the  support  of  a  Scriptural  parallel. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Dempster  had  lost  his  excellent  cli- 
ent, Mr.  Jerome — a  loss  which  galled  him  out  of  proportion 
to  the  mere  monetary  deficit  it  represented.  The  attorney 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  253 

loved  mnnpvjhtiit  he  loved  power  still  better.  _£Le  had  always 
bceiL,pt'(*«d^or  having  early  won  the  confa'dence  of  a  conven- 
ticle-goer, and  of  being  able  to  "  turn  the  prop  of  Salem  round 
his  thumb."  Like  most  other  men,  too,  he  had  a  certain  kind- 
ness towards  those  who  had  employed  him  when  he  was  only 
starting  in  life ;  and  just  as  we  do  not  like  to  part  with  an 
old  weather-glass  from  our  study,  or  a  two-feet  ruler  that  we 
have  carried  in  our  pocket  ever  since  we  began  business,  so 
Mr.  Dempster  did  not  like  having  to  erase  his  old  client's 
name  from  the  accustomed  drawer  in  the  bureau.  Our  ha- 
bitual life  is  like  a  wall  hung  with  pictures,  which  has  been 
shone  on  by  the  suns  of  many  years :  take  one  of  the  pictures 
away,  and  it  leaves  a  definite  blank  space,  to  which  our  eyes 
can  never  turn  without  a  sensation  of  discomfort.  Nay,  the 
involuntary  loss  of  any  familiar  object  almost  always  brings 
a  chill  as  from  an  evil  omen ;  it  seems  to  be  the  first  finger- 
shadow  of  advancing  death. 

From  all  these  causes  combined,  Mr.  Dempster  could  never 
think  of  his  lost  client  without  strong  irritation,  and  the  very 
sight  of  Mr.  Jerome  passing  in  the  street  was  wormwood  to 
him. 

One  day,  when  the  old  gentleman  was  coming  up  Orchard 
Street  on  his  roan  mare,  shaking  the  bridle,  and  tickling  her 
flank  with  the  whip  as  usual,  though  there  was  a  perfect  mu- 
tual understanding  that  she  was  not  to  quicken  her  pace, 
Janet  happened  to  be  on  her  own  door-step,  and  he  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  stopping  to  speak  to  that  "  jiice  little^ 
woman  "  aa  hpi  always  called  her,  ^hono-h  she  was  taller  than 
all  the  Test  of  his  feminine  acquaintances.  Janet,  in  spite  of 
her  disposition  to  take  her  husband's  part  in  all  public  mat- 
ters, could  bear  no  malice  against  her  old  friend ;  so  they 
shook  hands. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Dempster,  I'm  sorry  to  my  heart  not  to  see 
you  sometimes,  that  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Jerome,  in  a  plaintive 
tone.  "  But  if  you've  got  any  poor  people  as  wants  help,  and 
you  know's  deservin',  send  'em  to  me,  send  'em  to  me,  just  the 
same." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  that  I  will.     Good-bye." 

Janet  made  the  interview  as  short  as  she  could,  but  it  was 
not  short  enough  to  escape  the  observation  of  her  husband, 
who,  as  she  feared,  was  on  his  mid-day  return  from  his  office 
at  the  other  end  of  the  street,  and  this  offense  of  hers,  in  speak- 
ing to  Mr.  Jerome,  was  the  frequently  recurring  theme  of  Mr. 
Dempster's  objurgatory  domestic  eloquence. 

Associating  the  loss  of  his  old  client  with  Mr.  Tryan's  in- 
fluence, Dempster  began  to  know  more  distinctly -why  he 


254  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

hated  the  obnoxious  curate.  But  a  passionate  hate,  as  weft 
as  a  passionate  love,  demands  some  leisure  and  mental  free- 
dom. Persecution  and  revenge,  like  courtship  and  toadyism, 
will  not  prosper  without  a  considerable  expenditure  of  time 
and  ingenuity,  and  these  are  not  to  spare  with  a  man  whose 
law-business  and  liver  are  both  beginning  to  show  unpleasant 
symptoms.  Such  was  the  disagreeable  turn  affairs  were  tak- 
ing with  Mr.  Dempster,  and,  like  the  general  distracted  by 
home  intrigues,  he  was  too  much  harassed  himself  to  lay  inge- 
nious plans  for  harassing  the  enemy. 

Meanwhile,  the  evening  lecture  drew  larger  and  larger  con- 
gregations ;  not  perhaps  attracting  many  from  that  select 
aristocratic  circle  in  which  the  Lowmes  and  Pittmans  were 
predominant,  but  winning  the  larger  proportion  of  Mr. 
Crewe's  morning  and  afternoon  hearers,  and  thinning  Mr. 
Stickney's  evening  audiences  at  Salem.  Evangelicalism  was 
making  its  way  in  Milby,  and  gradually  diffusing  its  subtle 
odor  into  chambei'S  that  were  bolted  and  barred  against  it. 
The  movement,  like  all  other  religious  "  revivals,"  had  a  mix- 
ed effect.  Religious  ideas  have  the  fate  of  melodies,  which 
once  set  afloat  in  the  world,  are  taken  up  by  all  sorts  of  instru- 
ments, some  of  them  woefully  coarse,  feeble,  or  out  of  tune, 
until  people  are  in  danger  of  crying  out  that  the  melody  it- 
self is  detestable.  It  may  be  that  some  of  Mr.  Tryan's  hear- 
ers had  gained  a  religious  vocabulary  rather  than  religious 
experience ;  that  here  and  there  a  weaver's  wife,  who,  a  few 
months  before  had  been  simply  a  silly  slattern,  was  converted 
into  that  more  complex  nuisance,  a  silly  and  sanctimonious 
slattern  ;  that  the  old  Adam,  with  the  pertinacity  of  middle 
age,  continued  to  tell  fibs  behind  the  counter,  notwithstanding 
the  new  Adam's  addiction  to  Bible-reading  and  family  prayer : 
that  the  children  in  the  Paddiford  Sunday-school  had  their 
memories  crammed  with  phrases  about  the  blood  of  cleansing, 
imputed  righteousness,  and  justification  by  faith  alone,  which 
an  experience  lying  principally  in  chuck-farthing,  hop-scotch, 
parental  slappings,  and  longings  after  unattainable  lollypop, 
served  rather  to  darken  than  to  illustrate  ;  and  that  at  Milby, 
in  those  distant  days,  as  in  all  other  times  and  places  where 
the  mental  atmosphere  is  changing,  and  men  are  inhaling  the 
stimulus  of  new  ideas,  folly  often  mistook  itself  for  wisdom, 
ignorance  gave  itself  airs  of  knowledge,  and  selfishness,  turn- 
ing its  eyes  upward,  called  itself  religion. 

Nevertheless,  Evangelicalism  had  brought  into  palpable 
existence  and  operation  in  Milby  society  that  idea  of  duty, 
that  recognition  of  something  to  be  lived  for  beyond  the  mere 
satisfaction  of  self,  which  is  to  the  moral  life  what  t^e  nddi 


JANET'S  REPEXTANCE.  255 

tion  of  a  great  central  ganglion  is  to  animal  life.  No  man 
can  begin  to  mould  himself  on  a  faith  or  an  idea  without  ris- 
ing to  a  higher  order  of  experience :  a  principle  of  subordina- 
tion, of  self-mastery,  has  been  introduced  into  his  nature ;  he 
is  no  longer  a  mere  bundle  of  impressions,  desires,  and  impul- 
ses. Whatever  might  be  the  weaknesses  of  the  ladies  who 
pruned  the  luxuriance  of  their  lace  and  ribbons,  cut  out  gar- 
ments for  the  poor,  distributed  tracts,  quoted  Scripture,  and 
(defined  the  true  Gospel,  they  had  learned  this — that  there 
was  a  divine  work  to  be  done  in  life,  a  rule  of  goodness  high- 
er than  the  opinion  of  their  neighbors  ;  and  if  the  notion  of  a 
heaven  in  reserve  for  themselves  was  a  little  too  prominent, 
yet  the  theory  of  fitness  for  that  heaven  consisted  in  purity 
of  heart,  in  Christ-like  compassion,  in  the  subduing  of  selfish 
desires.  They  might  give  the  name  of  piety  to  much  that 
was  only  puritanic  egoism ;  they  might  call  many  things  sin 
that  were  not  sin  ;  but  they  had  at  least  the  feeling  that  sin 
was  to  be  avoided  and  resisted,  and  color-blindness,  which  may 
mistake  drab  for  scarlet,  is  better  than  total  blindness,  which 
sees  no  distinction  of  color  at  all.  Miss  Rebecca  Linnet,  in 
quiet  attire,  with  a  somewhat  excessive  solemnity  of  counte- 
nance, teaching  at  the  Sunday-school,  visiting  the  poor,  and 
striving  after  a  standard  of  purity  and  goodness,  had  surely 
more  moral  loveliness  than  in  those  flaunting  peony-days, 
when  she  had  no  other  model  than  the  costumes  of  the  hero- 
ines in  the  circulating  library.  Miss  Eliza  Pratt,  listening  in 
rapt  attention  to  Mr.  Tryan's  evening  lecture,  no  doubt  found 
evangelical  channels  for  vanity  and  egoism;  but  she  was 
clearly  in  moral  advance  of  Miss  Phipps  giggling  under  her 
feathers  at  old  Mr.  Crewe's  peculiarities  of  enunciation.  And 
even  elderly  fathers  and  mothers,  with  minds,  like  Mrs.  Lin- 
net's, too  tough  to  imbibe  much  doctrine,  were  the  better  for 
having  their  hearts  inclined  towards  the  new  preacher  as  a 
messenger  from  God.  They  became  ashamed,  perhaps,  of 
their  evil  tempers,  ashamed  of  their  worldliness,  ashamed  of 
their  trivial,  futile  past.  The  first  condition  of  human  good- 
ness is  something  to  love  ;  the  second,  something  to  reverence. 
And  this  latter  precious  gift  was  brought  to  Milby  by  Mr. 
Tryan  and  Evangelicalism. 

Yes,  the  movement  was  good,  though  it  had  that  mixture 
of  folly  and  evil  which  often  makes  what  is  good  an  offense  to 
feeble  and  fastidious  minds,  who  want  human  actions  and 
characters  riddled  through  the  sieve  of  their  own  ideas,  before 
they  can  accord  their  sympathy  or  admiration.  Such  minds, 
I  dare  say,  would  have  found  Mr.  Tryan's  character  very 
much  in  need  of  that  riddling  process.  The  blessed  work  of 


256  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

helping  the  world  forward,  happily  does  not  wait  to  be  done 
by  perfect  men ;  and  I  should  imagine  that  neither  Luther 
nor  John  Bunyan,  for  example,  would  have  satisfied  the  mod- 
ern demand  for  an  ideal  hero,  who  believes  nothing  but  what 
is  true,  feels  nothing  but  what  is  exalted,  and  does  nothing 
but  what  is  graceful.  The  real  heroes,  of  God's  making,  are 
quite  different :  they  have  their  natural  heritage  of  love  and 
conscience  which  they  drew  in  with  their  mother's  milk ; 
they  know  one  or  two  of  those  deep  spiritual  truths  which 
are  only  to  be  won  by  long  wrestling  with  their  own  sins 
and  their  own  sorrows ;  they  have  earned  faith  and  strength 
so  far  as  they  have  done  genuine  work ;  but  the  rest  is  dry, 
barren  theory,  blank  prejudice,  vague  hearsay.  Their  insight 
is  blended  with  mere  opinion;  their  sympathy  is  perhaps 
confined  in  narrow  conduits  of  doctrine,  instead  of  flowing 
forth  with  the  freedom  of  a  stream  that  blesses  every  weed 
in  its  course;  obstinacy  or  self-assertion  will  often  interfuse 
itself  with  their  grandest  impulses ;  and  their  very  deeds 
of  self-sacrifice  are  sometimes  only  the  rebound  of  a  pas- 
sionate egoism.  So  it  was  with  Mr.  Tryan :  and  any  one  look- 
ing at  him  with  the  bird's-eye  glance  of  a  critic  might  per- 
haps say  that  he  made  the  mistake  of  identifying  Christian- 
ity with  a  too  narrow  doctrinal  system;  that  he  saw  God's 
work  too  exclusively  in  antagonism  to  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil ;  that  his  intellectual  culture  was  too  limit- 
ed— and  so  on ;  making  Mr.  Tryan  the  text  for  a  wise  dis- 
course on  the  characteristics  of  the  Evangelical  school  in  his 
day. 

But  I  am  not  poised  at  that  lofty  height.  I  am  on  the 
level  and  in  the  press  with  him,  as  he  struggles  his  way  along 
the  stony  road  through  the  crowd  of  unloving  fellow-men. 
He  is  stumbling,  perhaps ;  his  heart  now  beats  fast  with 
dread,  now  heavily  with  anguish  ;  his  eyes  are  sometimes  dim 
with  tears,  which  he  makes  haste  to  dash  away ;  he  pushes 
manfully  on,  with  fluctuating  faith  and  courage,  with  a  sensi- 
tive failing  body  ;  at  last  he  falls,  the  struggle  is  ended,  and 
the  crowd  closes  over  the  space  he  has  left. 

"  One  of  the  Evangelical  clergy,  a  disciple  of  Venn,"  says 
the  critic  from  his  bird's-eye  station.  "Not  a  remarkable 
specimen ;  the  anatomy  and  habits  of  his  species  have  been 
determined  long  ago." 

Yet  surely,  surely  the  only  true  knowledge  of  our  fellow- 
man  is  that  which  enables  us  to  feel  with  him — which  gives 
us  a  fine  ear  for  the  heart-pulses  that  are  beating  under  the 
mere  clothes  of  circumstance  and  opinion.  Our  subtlest  an- 
alysis of  schools  and  sects  must  miss  the  essential  truth,  un- 


JANET'S  KEPENTAXCE.  257 

less  it  be  lit  up  by  the  love  that  sees  in  all  forms  of  human 
thought  atwL-Wfirk  the  life  and  death-struggles  of  separate 
human  beings. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MK.  TRYAN'S  most  unfriendly  observers  were  obliged  to 
admit  that  he  gave  himself  no  rest.  Three  sermons  on  Sun- 
day, a  night-school  for  young  men  on  Tuesday,  a  cottage-lec- 
ture on  Thursday,  addresses  to  school-teachers,  and  catechis- 
ing of  school-children,  with  pastoral  visits,  multiplying  as  his 
influence  extended  beyond  his  own  district  of  Paddiford 
Common,  would  have  been  enough  to  tax  severely  the  pow- 
ers of  a  much  stronger  man.  Mr_  Pratt  remonstrated  with 
him  on  his  imprudence,  but  comd  not  prevail  on  him  so  far 
to  -economize  time  and  sti'ength  as  to  keep  a  horse.  On  some 
ground  or  other,  which  his  iriends  found  difficult  to  explain 
to  themselves,  Mr.  Tryan  seemed  bent  on  wearing  himself 
out.  His  enemies  were  at  no  loss  to  account  for  such  a  course. 
The  Evangelical  curate's  selfishness  was  clearly  of  too  bad  a 
kind  to  exhibit  itself  after  the  ordinary  manner  of  a  sound, 
respectable  selfishness.  "  He  w^mts^&»-gcrttle"TgpTrtation  of 
a  saint^  sjiid  one  ;  "  He's  eaten  up  with  spiritual  pride,"  said 
unother;  "  He's  got  his  eye  on  some  fine  living,  and  wants 
to  creep  up  tliC~BishopTs~sleeve,"  said  a  third. 

"Mr.  Stifkm-y,  <>i'  Salem,  who  considered  all  voluntary  dis- 
comfort as  a  remnant  of  the  legal  spirit,  pronounced  a  severe 
condemnation  on  this  self-neglect,  and  expressed  his  fear  that 
Mr.  Trjap  waa  st.il I  fir  from  ha^U^  nt,t?mtffr>  true  Christian 
liberty.  Good  Mr.  Jerome  eagerly  seized  this  doctrinal  view 
of~the  subject  as  a  means  of  enforcing  the  suggestions  of  his 
own  benevolence;  and  one  cloudy  afternoon,  in  the  end  of 
November,  he  mounted  his  roan  mare  with  the  determination 
of  riding  to  Paddiford  and  "  arguying  "  the  point  with  Mr. 
Tryan. 

The  old  gentleman's  face  looked  very  mournful  as  he  rode 
along  the  dismal  Paddiford  lanes,  between  rows  of  grimy 
houses,  darkened  with  hand-looms,  while  the  black  dust  was 
whirled  about  him  by  the  cold  November  wind.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  object  which  had  brought  him  on  this  after- 
noon ride,  and  his  thoughts,  according  to  his  habit  when  alone, 
found  vent  every  now  and  then  in  audible  speech.  It  seemed 
to  him,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  this  scene  of  Mr.  Tryan's  labors, 
that  he  could  understand  the  clergyman's  self-privation  with- 


258  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

out  resorting  to  Mr.  Stickney's  theory  of  defective  spiritual 
enlightenment.  Do  not  philosophic  doctors  tell  us  that  we 
are  unable  to  discern  so  much  as  a  tree,  except  by  an  uncon- 
scious cunning  which  combines  many  past  and  separate  sen- 
sations ;  that  no  one  sense  is  independent  of  another,  so  that 
in  the  dark  we  can  hardly  taste  a  fricassee,  or  tell  whether 
our  pipe  is  alight  or  not,  and  the  most  intelligent  boy,  if  ac- 
commodated with  claws  or  hoofs  instead  of  fingers,  would  be 
likely  to  remain  on  the  lowest  form  ?  If  so,  it  is  easy  to  un- 
derstand that  our  discernment  of  men's  motives  must  depend 
on  the  completeness  of  the  elements  we  can  bring  from  our 
own  susceptibility  and  our  own  experience.  See  to  it,  friend, 
before  you  pronounce  a  too  hasty  judgment,  that  your  own 
moral  sensibilities  are  not  of  a  hoofed  or  clawed  character. 
The  keenest  eye  will  not  serve,  unless  you  have  the  delicate 
fingers,  with  their  subtle  nerve  filaments,  which  elude  scien- 
tific lenses,  and  lose  themselves  in  the  invisible  world  of  hu- 
man sensations. 

As  for  Mr.  Jerome,  he  drew  the  elements  of  his  moral  vis- 
ion from  the  depths  of  his  veneration  and  pity.  If  he  him- 
self felt  so  much  for  these  poor  things  to  whom  life  was  so  dim 
and  meagre,  what  must  the  clergyman  feel  who  had  under- 
taken before  God  to  be  their  shepherd  ? 

"  Ah  !"  he  whispered,  interruptedly,  "  it's  too  big  a  load  for 
his  conscience,  poor  man !  He  wants  to  mek  himself  their 
brother,  like ;  can't  abide  to  preach  to  the  fastin'  on  a  full 
stomach.  Ah !  he's  better  nor  we  are,  that's  it — he's  a  deal 
better  nor  we  are." 

Here  Mr.  Jerome  shook  his  bridle  violently,  and  looked  up 
witli  an  air  of  moral  courage,  as  if  Mr.  Stickney  had  been 
present,  and  liable  to  take  offense  at  this  conclusion.  A  few 
minutes  more  brought  him  in  front  of  Mrs.  Wagstaff's,  where 
Mr.  Tryan  lodged.  He  had  often  been  here  before,  so  that 
the  contrast  between  this  ugly  square  brick  house,  with  its 
shabby  bit  of  grass-plot,  stared  at  all  round  by  cottage  win- 
dows, and  his  own  pretty  white  home,  set  in  a  paradise  of 
orchard  and  garden  and  pasture,  was  not  new  to  him ;  but  he 
felt  it  with  fresh  force  to-day,  as  he  slowly  fastened  his  roan 
by  the  bridle  to  the  wooden  paling,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 
Mr.  Tryan  was  at  home,  and  sent  to  request  that  Mr.  Jerome 
would  walk  up  into  his  study,  as  the  fire  was  out  in  the  par- 
lor below. 

At  the  mention  of  a  clergyman's  study,  perhaps  your  too 
active  imagination  conjures  up  a  perfect  snuggery,  where  the 
general  air  of  comfort  is  rescued  from  a  secular  character  by 
strong  ecclesiastical  suggestions  in  the  shape  of  the  furniture, 


JANET'S  REPENTAXCE.  259 

the  pattern  of  the  carpet,  and  the  prints  on  the  wall ;  where, 
if  a  nap  is  taken,  it  is  in  an  easy-chair  with  a  Gothic  back,  and 
the  very  feet  rest  on  a  warm  and  velvety  simulation  of  church 
windows;  where  the  pure  art  of  rigorous  English  Protestant- 
ism smiles  above  the  mantel-piece  in  the  portrait  of  an  emi- 
nent bishop,  or  a  refined  Anglican  taste  is  indicated  by  a  Ger- 
man print  from  Overbeck;  where  the  walls  are  lined  with 
choice  divinity  in  sombre  binding,  and  the  light  is  softened 
by  a  screen  of  boughs  with  a  gray  church  in  the  background. 

But  I  must  beg  you  to  dismiss  all  such  scenic  prettiness, 
suitable  as  they  may  be  to  a  clergyman's  character  and  com- 
plexion ;  for  I  have  to  confess  that  Mr.  Tryan's  study  was  a 
very  ugly  little  room  indeed,  with  an  ugly  slap-dash  pattern 
on  the  walls,  an  ugly  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  an  ugly  view 
of  cottage  roofs  and  cabbage-gardens  from  the  window.  His 
own  person,  his  writing-table,  and  his  book-case,  were  the  only 
objects  in  the  room  that  had  the  slightest  air  of  refinement ; 
and  the  sole  provision  for  comfort  was  a  clumsy  straight- 
backed  arm-chair,  covered  with  faded  chintz.  The  man  who 
could  live  in  such  a  room,  unconstrained  by  poverty,  must 
either  have  his  vision  fed  from  within  by  an  intense  passion, 
or  he  must  have  chosen  that  least  attractive  form  of  self-mor- 
tification which  wears  no  haircloth  and  has  no  meagre  days, 
but  accepts  the  vulgar,  the  commonplace,  and  the  ugly,  when- 
ever the  highest  duty  seems  to  lie  among  them. 

"  Mr.  Tryan,  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  disturbin'  on  you," 
said  Mr.  Jerome.  "  But  I'd  summat  particler  to  say." 

"  You  don't  disturb  me  at  all,  Mr.  Jerome ;  I'm  very  glad 
to  have  a  visit  from  you,"  said  Mr.  Tryan,  shaking  him  heart- 
ily by  the  hand,  and  offering  him  the  chintz-covered  "  easy  " 
chair;  "it  is  some  time  since  I've  had  an  opportunity  of  see- 
ing you,  except  on  a  Sunday." 

"Ah,  sir  !  your  time's  so  taken  up,  I'm  well  aware  o'  that; 
it's  not  only  what  you  hev  to  do,  but  it's  goin'  about  from 
place  to  place  ;  an'  you  don't  keep  a  hoss,  Mr.  Tryan.  You 
don't  take  care  enough  o'  yourself — you  don't  indeed,  an' 
that's  what  I  come  to  talk  to  y'  about." 

"  That's  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  Jerome ;  but  I  assure  you 
I  think  walking  does  me  no  harm.  It  is  rather  a  relief 
to  me  after  speaking  or  writing.  Yoii  know  I  have  no  great 
circuit  to  make.  The  farthest  distance  I  have  to  walk 
is  to  Milby  Church,  and  if  ever  I  want  a  horse  on  a  Sunday, 
I  hire  Radley's,  who  lives  not  many  hundred  yards  from 
me." 

"Well,  but  now!  the  winter's  comin'  on,  an' you'll  get 
wet  i'  your  feet,  an'  Pratt  tells  me  as  your  constitution's  dil- 


260  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

licate,  as  any  body  may  see,  for  the  matter  o'  that,  wi'out 
beiu'  a  doctor.  An'  this  is  the  light  I  look  at  it  in,  Mr.  Try- 
an  :  who's  to  fill  up  your  place,  if  you  was  to  be  disabled,  as 
I  may  say  ?  Consider  what  a  valuable  life  yours  is.  You've 
begun  a  great  work  i'  Milby,  and  so  you  might  carry  it  on, 
if  you'd  your  health  and  strength.  The  more  care  you  take 
o'  yourself,  the  longer  you'll  live,  belike,  God  willing,  to  do 
good  to  your  fellow-creaturs." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Mr.  Jerome,  I  think  I  should  not  be  a 
long-lived  man  in  any  case ;  and  if  I  were  to  take  care  of 
myself  under  the  pretext  of  doing  more  good,  I  should  very 
likely  die  and  leave  nothing  done  after  all." 

"Well!  but  keepin'  a  hoss  wouldn't  hinder  you  from 
workin'.  It  'ud  help  you  to  do  more,  though  Pratt  says  as 
it's  usin'  your  voice  so  constant  as  does  you  the  most  harm. 
Now,  isn't  it — I'm  no  scholard,  Mr.  Try  an,  an'  I'm  not  a-goin' 
to  dictate  to  you — but  isn't  it  a'most  a-killin'  o'  yourself,  to 
go  on  a'  that  way  beyond  your  strength  ?  We  mustn't  fling 
our  lives  away." 

"  No,  not  fling  them  away  lightly,  but  we  are  permitted 
to  lay  down  our  lives  in  a  right  cause,  there  are  many 
duties,  as  you  know,  Mr.  Jerome,  which  stand  before  taking 
care  of  our  own  lives." 

"  Ah  !  I  can't  arguy  wi'  you,  Mr.  Tryan ;  but  what  I 
wanted  to  say's  this  —  There's  my  little  chacenut  hoss;  I 
should  take  it  quite  a  kindness  if  you'd  hev  him  through  the 
winter  an'  ride  him.  I've  thought  o'  sellin'  him  a  many 
times,  for  Mrs.  Jerome  can't  abide  him  ;  and  what  do  I  want 
wi'  two  nags?  But  I'm  fond  o'  the  little  chacenut,  an'  I 
shouldn't  like  to  sell  him.  So  if  you'll  only  ride  him  for  me, 
you'll  do  me  a  kindness — you  will,  indeed,  Mr.  Tryan." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome.  I  promise  you  to  ask  for  him 
when  I  feel  that  I  want  a  nag.  There  is  no  man  I  would 
more  gladly  be  indebted  to  than  you  ;  but  at  present  I  would 
rather  not  have  a  horse.  I  should  ride  him  very  little,  and  it 
would  be  an  inconvenience  to  me  to  keep  him  rather  than 
otherwise." 

t  Mr.  Jerome  looked  troubled  and  hesitating,  as  if  he  had 
'something  on  his  mind  that  would  not  readily  shape  itself 
into  words.  At  last  he  said,  "  You'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Tryan, 
I  wouldn't  be  takin'  a  liberty,  but  I  know  what  great  claims 
you  hev  on  you  as  a  clergyman.  Is  it  the  expense,  Mr.  Try- 
an ?  is  it  the  money  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  sir.  I  have  much  more  than  a  single  man 
needs.  My  way  of  living  is  quite  of  my  own  choosing,  and 
I  am  doing  nothing  but  what  I  feel  bound  to  do,  quite  apart 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  261 

from  money  considerations.  We  can  not  judge  for  one  an- 
other, you  know ;  we  have  each  our  peculiar  weaknesses  and 
temptations.  I  quite  admit  that  it  might  be  right  for  an- 
other man  to  allow  himself  more  luxuries,  and  I  assure  you 
I  think  it  no  superiority  in  myself  to  do  without  them.  On 
the  contrary,  if  my  heart  were  less  rebellious,  and  if  I  were 
less  liable  to  temptation,  I  should  not  need  that  sort  of  self- 
denial.  But,"  added  Mr.  Try  an,  holding  out  his  hand  to  Mr. 
Jerome,  "  I  understand  your  kindness,  and  bless  you  for  it. 
If  I  want  a  horse,  I  shall  ask  for  the  chestnut." 

Mr.  Jerome  was  obliged  to  rest  contented  with  this  prom- 
ise, and  pode  home  sorrowfully,  reproaching  himself  with 
not  having  said  one  thing  he  meant  to  say  when  setting  out, 
and  with  having  "  clean  forgot "  the  arguments  he  had  in- 
tended to  quote  from  Mr.  Stickney. 

Mr.  Jerome's  was  not  the  only  mind  that  was  seriously 
disturbed  by  the  idea  that  the  curate  was  over-working  him- 
self. There,  Avere  tender  women's  hearts  in  which  anxiety 
about  the  state  of  his  affections  was  beginning  to  be  merged 
in  anxiety  about  the  state  of  his  health.  Miss  Eliza  Pratt 
had  at  one  time  passed  through  much  sleepless  cogitation  on 
the  possibility  of  Mr.  Tryan's  being  attached  to  some  lady 
at  a  distance — at  Laxeter,  perhaps,  where  he  had  formerly 
held  a  curacy ;  and  her  fine  eyes  kept  close  watch  lest  any 
symptom  of  engaged  affections  on  his  part  should  escape  her. 
It  seemed  an  alarming  fact  that  his  handkerchiefs  were  beau- 
tifully marked  with  hair,  until  she  reflected  that  he  had  an 
unmarried  sister  of  whom  he  spoke  with  much  affection  as 
his  father's  companion  and  comforter.  Besides,  Mr.  Tryan 
had  never  paid  any  distant  visit,  except  one  for  a  few  days 
to  his  father,  and  no  hint  escaped  him  of  his  intending  to 
take  a  house,  or  change  his  mode  of  living.  No !  he  could 
not  be  engaged,  though  he  might  have  been  disappointed. 
But  this  latter  misfortune  is  one  from  which  a  devoted  cler- 
gyman has  been  known  to  recover,  by  the  aid  of  a  fine  pair 
of  gray  eyes  that  beam  on  him  with  affectionate  reverence. 
Before  Christmas,  however,  her  cogitations  began  to  take 
another  turn.  She  heard  her  father  say  very  confidently 
that  "  Tryan  was  consumptive,  and  if  he  didn't  take  more 
care  of  himself,  his  life  would  not  be  worth  a  year's  purchase ;" 
and  shame  at  having  speculated  on  suppositions  that  were 
likely  to  prove  so  false,  sent  poor  Miss  Eliza's  feelings  with  all 
the  stronger  impetus  into  the  one  channel  of  sorrowrful  alarm 
at  the  prospect  of  losing  the  pastor  who  had  opened  to  her 
a  new  life  of  piety  and  self-subjection.  It  is  a  sad  weakness 
'in  us,  after  all,  that  the  thought  of  a  man's  death  hallows 


262  SCENES    OP    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

him  anew  to  us  ;  as  if  life  were  not  sacred  too—  as  if  it  were 
comparatively  a  light  thing  to  fail  in  love  and  reverence  to 
the  brother  who  has  to  climb  the  whole  toilsome  steep  with 
us,  and  all  our  tears  and  tenderness  were  due  to  the  one  who 
is  spared  that  hard  journey. 

The  Miss  Linnets,  too,  were  beginning  to  take  a  new  view 
of  the  future,  entirely  uncolored  by  jealousy  of  Miss  Eliza 
Pratt. 

"  Did  you  notice,"  said  Mary,  one  afternoon  when  Mrs. 
Pettifer  was  taking  tea  with   them  —  "did  you  notice  that 
short  dry  cough  of  Mr.  Tryan's  yesterday  ?     I  .think  he  looksVX' 
worse  and  worse  every  week,  and  I  only  wish  LJOMW  Jllti  sis-/\ 
ter;  I  would  write  to  her  about  him.     I'm  sure  something 
should  be  done  to  make  him  give  up  part  of  his  work,  and  he 
will  listen  to  no  one  here." 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  "it's  a  thousand  pities  his  father 
and  sister  can't  come  and  live  with  him,  if  he  isn't  to  mar 
ry.  But  IwishjEJthall  my  heart  he  could  have  taken  to 
some  nice  woman  as  would  have  fnade  a  comfortable  home 
for  him.  I  used  to  think  he  might  take  to  Eliza  Pratt  ;  she's 
a  -good  girl,  and  very  pretty  ;  but  I  see  no  likelihood  of  it 
now." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Rebecca,  with  some  emphasis;  "Miv- 
Tryan's  heart  is  not  for  any  woman  to  win  ;  it  is  all  given  to 
his  work;  and  I  could  never  wish  to  see  him  Avitli  ;i  young 
inexperienced  wife  who  would  be  a  drag  on  him  instead  of  a 

~ 


He'd  need  have  somebody,  young  or  old,"  observed  Mrs. 
Linnet,  "  to  see  as  he  wears  a  flannel  wrescoat,  an'  changes 
his  stockins  when  he  comes  in.  It's  my  opinion  he's  got  that 
cough  wi'  sittin'  i'  wet  shoes  and  stockins  ;  an'  that  Mrs.  Wag- 
staffs  a  poor  addle-headed  thing  ;  she  doesn't  half  tek  care 
on  him." 

"  Oh  mother  !"  said  Rebecca,  "  she's  a  very  pious  woman. 
And  I'm  sure  she  thinks  it  too  great  a  privilege  to  have  Mr. 
Tryan  with  her,  not  to  do  the  best  she  can  to  make  him  com- 
fortable. She  can't  help  her  rooms  being  shabby." 

"  I've  nothing  to  say  again'  her  piety,  my  dear  ;  but  I 
know  very  well  I  shouldn't  like  her  to  cook  my  victual. 
When  a  man  comes  in  hungry  an'  tired,  piety  won't  feed  him, 
I  reckon.  Hard  carrots  'ull  lie  heavy  on  his  stomach,  piety 
or  no  piety.  I  called  in  one  day  when  she  was  dishin'  up  Mr. 
Tryan's  dinner,  an'  I  could  see  the  potatoes  was  as  watery  as 
watery.  It's  right  enough  to  be  speritial  —  I'm  no  enemy  to 
that  ;  but  I  like  my  potatoes  mealy.  I  don't  sec  as  any  body 
'ull  go  to  heaven  the  sooner  for  not  digestin'  their  dinner  — 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  263 

providin'  they  don't  die  sooner,  as  mayhap  Mr.  Tryan  will, 
poor  dear  man  !" 

"  It  will  be  a  heavy  day  for  us  all  when  that  comes  to  pass," 
said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  We  shall  never  get  any  body  to  till  up 
that  gap.  There's  the  new  clergyman  that's  just  come  to 
Shrppfftou_  Afr  Parry;  I  saw  him  the  oilier  day  at  Mrs. 
Bond's.  He  may  be  a  very  good  man,  and  a  fine  preacher ; 
they  say  he  is ;  but  I  thought  to  myself,  What  a  difference 
between  hira^ajij(L_Mrr-¥»yan !  He's  a  sharp-sort-of-looking 
man,  and  hasn't  that- feeling  way  with  him  that  Mr.  Tryan 
has.  What  is  so  wonderful  to  me  in  Mr.  Tryan  is  the  way 
he  puts  himself  on  a  level  with  one,  and  talks  to  one  like  a 
brother.  I'm  never  afraid  of  telling  him  any  thing.  He 
never  seems  to  look  down  on  any  body.  He  knows  how  to 
lift  up  those  that  are  cast  down,  if  ever  man  did." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary.  "  And  when  I  see  all  the  faces  turned 
up  to  him  in  Paddiford  Church,  I  often  think  how  hard  it 
would  be  for  any  clergyman  who  had  to  come  after  him ;  he 
has  made  the  people  love  him  so." 


CHAPTER  XH. 

IN  her  occasional  visits  to  her  near  neighbor  Mrs.PfiUifer, 
too  old  a  friend  to  be  shunned  because  she  was""aiTryaniteJ 
Janet  was  obliged  sometimes  to  hear  allusions  to  Mr.  Tryan, 
and  even  to  listen  to  his  praises,  which  she  usually  met  with 
playful  incredulity. 

"  Ah,  well,"  she  answered  one  day,  "  I  like  dear  old  Mr. 
Crewe  and  his  pipes  a  great  deal  better  than  your  Mr.  Tryan 
and  his  Gospel.  When  I  was  a  little  toddle,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Crewe  used  to  let  me  play  about  in  their  garden,  and  have  a 
swing  between  the  great  elm-trees,  because  mother  had  no 
garden.  I  like  people  who  are  kind ;  kindness  is  my  religion ; 
and  that's  the  reason  I  like  you,  dear  Mrs.  Pettifer,  though 
you  are  a  Tryanite." 

"  But  that's  Mr.  Tryan's  religion  too — at  least  partly. 
There's  nobody  can  give  himself  up  more  to  doing  good 
amongst  the  poor ;  and  he  thinks  of  their  bodies  too,  as  well 
as  their  souls." 

"  Oh  yes,  yes  ;  but  then  he  talks  about  faith,  and  grace,  and 
all  that,  making  people  believe  they  are  better  than  others, 
and  that  God  loves  them  more  than  He  does  the  rest  of  the 
world.  I  know  he  has  put  a  great  deal  of  that  into  Sally 


264  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Martin's  head,  and  it  has  done  her  no  good  at  all.  She  was 
as  nice,  honest,  patient  a  girl  as  need  be  before  ;  and  now  she 
fancies  she  has  new  light  and  new  wisdom.  I  don't  like  those 
notions." 

"  You  mistake  him,  indeed  you  do,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dempster; 
I  wish  yow'd  go  and  hear  him  preach." 

"  Hear  him  preach  !  Why,  you  wicked  woman,  you  would 
persuade  me  to  disobey  my  husband,  would  you  ?  Oh,  shock- 
ing !  I  shall  run  away  from  you.  Good-bye." 

A  few  days  after  this  conversation,  however,  Janet  went  to 
Sally  Martin's  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  pud- 
ding that  had  been  sent  in  for  herself  and  "Mammy"  struck 
her  as  just  the  sort  of  delicate  morsel  the  poor  consumptive 
girl  would  be  likely  to  fancy,  and  in  her  usual  impulsive  way 
she  had  started  up  from  the  dinner-table  at  once,  put  on  her 
bonnet,  and  set  off  with  a  covered  plateful  to  the  neighboring 
street.  When  she  entered  the  house  there  was  no  one  to  be 
seen  ;  but  in  the  little  side  room  where  Sally  lay,  Janet  heard 
a  voice.  It  was  one  she  had  not  heard  before,  but  she  imme- 
diately guessed  it  to  be  Mr.  Tryan's.  Her  first  impulse  was 
to  set  down  her  plate  and  go  away,  but  Mrs.  Martin  might 
not  be  in,  and  then  there  would  be  no  one  to  give  Sally  that 
delicious  bit  of  pudding.  So  she  stood  still,  and  was  obliged 
to  hear  what  Mr.  Tryan  was  saying.  He  was  interrupted  by 
one  of  the  invalid's  violent  fits  of  coughing. 

"It  is  very  hard  to  bear, is  it  not?"  he  said  when  she  was 
still  again.  "  Yet  God  seems  to  support  you  under  it  wonder- 
fully. Pray  for  me,  Sally,  that  I  may  have  strength  too  when 
the  hour  of  great  suffering  comes.  It  is  one  of  my  worst 
weaknesses  to  shrink  from  bodily  pain,  and  I  think  the  time 
is  perhaps  not  far  off  when  I  shall  have  to  bear  what  you  are 
bearing.  But  now  I  have  tired  you.  We  have  talked  enough. 
Good-bye." 

Janet  was  surprised,  and  forgot  her  wish  not  to  encounter 
Mr.  Tryan  ;  the  tone  and  the  words  were  so  unlike  what  she 
had  expected  to  hear.  There  was  none  of  the  self-satisfied 
unction  of  the  teacher,  quoting,  or  exhorting,  or  expounding, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  hearer,  but  a  simple  appeal  for  help,  a 
confession  of  weakness.  Mr.  Tryan  had  his  deeply-felt  troub- 
les, then  ?  Mr.  Tryan,  too,  like  herself,  knew  what  it  was  to 
tremble  at  a  foreseen  trial — to  shudder  at  an  impending  bur- 
then, heavier  than  he  felt  able  to  bear  ? 

The  most  brilliant  deed  of  virtue  could  not  have  inclined 
Janet's  good-will  towards  Mr.  Tryan  so  much  as  this  fellow- 
ship in  suffering,  and  the  softening  thought  was  in  her  eyes 
wrhen  he  appeared  in  the  doorway,  pale,  weary,  and  depressed. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  265 

The  sight  of  Janet  standing  there  with  the  entire  absence  of 
self-consciousness  which  belongs  to  a  new  and  vivid  impres- 
sion, made  him  start  and  pause  a  little.  Their  eyes  met,  and 
they  looked  at  each  other  gravely  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
they  bowed,  and  Mr.  Tryan  passed  out. 

There  is  a  power  in  the  direct  glance  of  a  sincere  and  lov- 
ing human  soul,  which  will  do  more  to  dissipate  prejudice  and 
kindle  charity  than  the  most  elaborate  arguments.  The  full- 
est exposition  of  Mr.  Tryan's  doctrine  might  not  have  sufficed 
to  convince  Janet  that  he  had  not  an  odious  self-complacency 
in  believing  himself  a  peculiar  child  of  God  ;  but  one  direct, 
pathetic  look  of  his  had  dissociated  him  with  that  conception 
forever. 

This  happened  late  in  the  autumn,  not  long  before  Sally  *-= 
Martin  died.     Janet  mentioned  her  new  impression  to  no  one,   _ 
for  she  was  afraid  of  arriving  at  a  still  more  complete  contra- 
diction  of  her  former  ideas.     We  have  all  of  us  considerable 
regard  for  our  past  self,  and  are  not  fond  of  casting  reflections 
on  that  respected  individual  by  a  total  negation  of  his  opin-  -^ 
ions.     Janet  could  no  longer  think  of  Mr.  Tryan  without  sym- 
pathy, bulfsnTTstiinniKHitnTO^^  ^ 
er_aiul  admirer.     That  was  a  reversal  of  the- past  which  was    -,.; 
as  little  accordant  with  her  inclination  as  her  circumstances. 

And  indeed  this  interview  with  Mr.  Tryan  was  soon  thrust 
into  the  background  of  poor  Janet's  memory  by  the  daily 
thickening  miseries  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

THE  loss  of  Mr.  Jerome  as  a  client  proved  only  the  begin- 
ning of  annoyances  to  Dempster.  That  old  gentleman  had 
in  him  the  vigorous  remnant  of  an  energy  and  perseverance 
which  had  created  his  own  fortune ;  and  being,  as  I  have 
hinted,  given  to  chewing  the  cud  of  a  righteous  indignation 
with  considerable  relish,  he  was  determined  to  carry  on  his 
retributive  war  against  the  persecuting  attorney.  Having 
some  influence  with  Mr.  Pryuie,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
substantial  rate-payers  in  the  neighboring  parish  of  Dingley, 
and  who  had  himself  a  complex  and  long-standing  private 
account  with  Dempster,  Mr.  Jerome  stirred  up  this  gentleman 
to  an  investigation  of  some  suspicious  points  in  the  attorney's 
conduct  of  the  parish  affairs.  The  natural  consequence  was 
a  personal  quarrel  between  Dempster  and  Mr,  Pryme  j  the 

"*• — to — ._ 


266  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

client  demanded  his  account,  and  then  followed  the  old  story 
of  an  exorbitant  lawyer's  bill,  with  the  unpleasant  anti-cli- 
max of  taxing. 

These  disagreeables,  extending  over  many  months,  ran 
along  side  by  side  with  the  pressing  business  of  Mr.  Arm- 
strong's law-suit,  which  was  threatening  to  take  a  turn  rath- 
er depreciatory  of  Dempster's  professional  prevision  ;  and  it 
is  not  surprising  that,  being  thus  kept  in  a  constant  state  of 
irritated  excitement  about  his  own  affairs,  he  had  little  time 
for  the  further  exhibition  of  his  public  spirit,  or  for  rallying 
the  forlorn  hope  of  sound  churchmanship  against  cant  and 
hypocrisy.  Not  a  few  persons  who  had  a  grudge  against  him 
began  to  remark,  with  satisfaction,  that  "Dempster's  luck 
was  forsaking  him ;"  particularly  Mrs.  Linnet,  who  thought 
she  saw  distinctly  the  gradual  ripening  of  a  providential 
scheme,  whereby  a  just  retribution  would  be  wrought  on  the 
man  who  had  deprived  her  of  Pye's  Croft.  On  the  other  hand, 
Dempster's  well-satisfied  clients,  who  were  of  opinion  that  the 
punishment  of  his  wickedness  might  conveniently  be  deferred 
to  another  world,  noticed  with  some  concern  that  he  was 
drinking  more  than  ever,  and  that  both  his  temper  and  his 
driving  were  becoming  more  furious.  Unhappily  those  ad- 
ditional glasses  of  brandy,  that  exasperation  of  loud-tongued 
abuse,  had  other  effects  than  any  that  entered  into  the  con- 
templation of  anxious  clients  :  they  were  the  little  superadd- 
ed  symbols  that  were  perpetually  raising  the  sum  of  home 
misery. 

Poor  Janet !  how  heavily  the  months  rolled  on  for  her, 
laden  with  fresh  sorrows  as  the  summer  passed  into  autumn, 
the  autumn  into  winter,  and  the  winter  into  spring  again. 
Every  feverish  morning,  with  its  blank  listlessness  and  de- 
spair, seemed  more  hateful  than  the  last ;  every  corning  night 
more  impossible  to  brave  without  arming  herself  in  leaden 
stupor.  The  morning  light  brought  no  gladness  to  her :  it 
seemed  only  to  throw  its  glare  on  what  had  happened  in  the 
dim  candle-light  —  on  the  cruel  man  seated  immovable  in 
drunken  obstinacy  by  the  dead  fire  and  dying  lights  in  the 
dining-room,  rating  her  in  harsh  tones,  reiterating  old  re- 
proaches— or  on  a  hideous  blank  of  something  unremembered, 
something  that  must  have  made  that  dark  bruise  on  her 
shoulder,  which  ached  as  she  dressed  herself. 

Do  you  wonder  how  it  was  that  things  had  come  to  this 
pass — what  offense  Janet  had  committed  in  the  early  years 
of  marriage  to  rouse  the  brutal  hatred  of  this  man  ?  The 
seeds  of  things  are  very  small :  the  hours  that  lie  between 
eunrise  and  the  gloom  of  midnight  are  travelled  through  by 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  267 

tiniest  markings  of  the  clock :  and  Janet,  looking  back  along 
the  fifteen  years  of  her  marr^dlifc,Jiai^T3g:fen<*w  limy"m:Vh»r^ 
this  total  misery  began  ;  hardly  knew  when  the  sweet  wed- 
ded love  and  hope  that  had  set  forever  had  ceased  to  make 
a  twilight  of.  memory  and  relenting,  before  the  on-coming  of 
the  utter  dark. 

Old*mrsTDempster  thought  she  saw  the  true  beginning  of     \ 
it  all  in  Janet's  want  of  housekeeping  skill  and  exactness.       ^ 
"  Janet,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  wa^always  running  about  do- 
ing things^for  other  people,  and^negtecttag.  Jier  own  house. 
That  provokes  a  man;  "what  use  is  it  for  a  woman  to  be  lov- 
ing, and  making  a  fuss  with  her  nusbiiml,  if  she  doesn't  take' 
care  and  keep  his  'hoifRTfTmt'im  lie1  likes  it  Lij'-ghe  isn't  at  hand 
when  he  wants  any  thing  done  ;  if  she  doesn't  attend  to  ally 
his  wishes,  let  them  be  as  small  as  they  may  ?    That_w_as  wha 
I  did  w  lien  I  was  a  wjfe^  though  I  didn't  makcrKalfso  m'ucl 
fuss  ql^jjjr  iovipg~my"'|r"gT>7rtul.      Thtu,  thmet  had  no  chil 
faGn^1*^  Aft !  there  Mammy  Dempster  had  touched  a  true 
spring,  not  perhaps  of  her  son's  cruelty,  but  of  half  Janet's 
misery.    If  she  had  babes  to  rock  to  sleep — little  ones  to  kneel 
in  their  night-dress  and  say  their  prayers  at  her  knees — sweet 
boys  and  girls  to  put  their  young  arms  round  her  neck  and 
kiss  away  her  tears,  her  poor  hungry  heart  would  have  been 
fed  with  sti'ong  love,  and  might  never  have  needed  that  fiery 
poison  to  still  its  cravings.      Mighty  is  the  force  of  mother- 
hood !  says  the  great  tragic  poet~to~iTs~TrciO9s  the  ages,  find 
ing,  alT'usual,  the  simplest  words  for  the  sublimest  fact — £«- 
vuv  TO  TIKTHV  inriv.     It  transforms  all  things  by  its  vital  heat ; 
it  turns  timidity  into  fierce  courage,  and  drcadless  defiance 
into  tremulous  submission  ;  it  turns  thoughtlessness  into  fore* 
sight,  and  yet  stills  all  anxiety  into  calm  content ;  it  makes 
selfishness  become  self-denial,  and  gives  even  to  hard  vanity 
the  glance  of  admiring  love.     Yes  !  if  Janet  had  been  a  moth- 
er, she  might  have  been  saved  from  much  sin,  and  therefore 
from  mnrh  of  hrr^Trro'n' 

But  do  not  believe  that  it  was  any  thing  either  present 
or  wanting  in  poor  Janet  that  formed  the  motive  of  her  hus- 
band's cruelty.  Cruelty,  like  every  other  vice,  requires  no 
motive  outside  itself — it  only  requires  opportunity.  You  do 
not  suppose  Dempster  had  any  motive  for  drinking  beyond 
the  craving  for  drink ;  the  presence  of  brandy  was  the  only 
necessary  condition.  And  an  unloving,  tyrannous,  brutal 
man  needs  no  motive  to  prompt  his  cruelty ;  he  needs  only 
the  perpetual  presence  of  a  woman  he  can  call  his  own.  A 
whole  park  full  of  tame  or  timid-eyed  animals  to  torment  at 
his  will  would  not  serve  him  so  well  to  glut  his  lust  of  tor* 


268  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ture  ;  they  could  not  feel  as  one  woman  does :  they  could  not 
throw  out  the  keen  retort  which  whets  the  edge  of  hatred. 

Janet's  "bitterness  would  overflow  in  ready  words;  she 
was  not  to  be  made  meek  by  cruelty ;  she  would  repent  of 
nothing  in  the  face  of  injustice,  though  she  was  subdued  in  a 
moment  by  a  word  or  a  look  that  recalled  the  old  days  of 
fondness ;  and  in  times  of  comparative  calm  would  often  re- 
cover her  sweet  woman's  habit  of  caressing,  playful  affection. 
But  such  days  were  become  rare,  and  poor  Janet's  soul  was 
kept  like  a  vexed  sea,  tossed  by  a  new  storm  before  the  old 
waves  have  fallen.  Proud,  angry  resistance  and  sullen  en- 
durance were  now  almost  the  only  alternations  she  knew. 
She  would  bear  it  all  proudly  to  the  world,  but  proudly  to- 
wards him  too ;  her  woman's  weakness  might  shriek  a  cry 
for  pity  under  a  heavy  blow,  but  voluntarily  she  would  do 
nothing  to  mollify  him,  unless  he  first  relented.  _What,had 
she  ever  done  to  him  but  love  him  too  well — but  believe  in 
him  too  foolishly  ?  He  had  no  pity  on  her  tender  flesh  ;  he 
could  strike  the  soft  neck  he  hud  once  asked  to  kiss.  Yet 
she  would  not  admit  her  wretchedness  ;  she  had  married  him 
blindly,  and  she  would  bear  it  out  to  the  terrible  end,  what- 
ever that  might  be.  Better  this  misery  than  the  blank  that 
lay  for  her  outside  her  married  home. 

But  there  was  one  person  who  heard  all  the  plaints  and 
all  the  outbursts  of  bitterness  and  despair  which  Janet  was 
never  tempted  to  pour  into  any  other  ear ;  and  alas !  in  her 
worst  moments,  Janet  would  throw  out  wild  reproaches 
against  that  patient  listener.  For  the  wrong  that  rouses  our 
/ingry  passions  finds  only  a  medium  in  us ;  it  passes  through 
us  like  a  vibration,  and  we  inflict  what  we  have  suffered. 

Mrs.  Raynor  saw  too  clearly  all  through  the  winter  that 
things  were  getting  worse  in  Orchard  Street.  She  had  evi- 
dence enough  of  it  in  Janet's  visits  to  her ;  and,  though  her 
own  visits  to  her  daughter  Avere  so  timed  that  she  saw  little 
of  Dempster  personally,  she  noticed  many  indications  not 
only  that  he  was  drinking  to  greater  excess,  but  that  he  was 
beginning  to  lose  that  physical  power  of  supporting  excess 
which  had  long  been  the  admiration  of  such  fine  spirits  as 
Mr.  Tomlinson.  It  seemed  as  if  Dempster  had  some  con- 
sciousness of  this — some  new  distrust  of  himself;  for,  before 
winter  was  over,  it  was  observed  that  he  had  renounced  his 
habit  of  driving  out  alone,  and  was  never  seen  in  his  gig 
without  a  servant  by  his  side. 

Nemesis  is  lame,  but  she  is  of  colossal  stature,  like  the 
gods  ;  a1i"dlT>6nTDlimes,  while  her  sword  is  not  yet  unsheathed, 
Bhe  stretches  out  her  huge  left  arm  and  grasps  her  victim. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  269 

The  mighty  hand  is  invisible,  but  the  victim  totters  under 
the  dire  clutch. 

The  various  symptoms  that  things  were  getting  worse 
with  the  Dempsters  afforded  Milby  gossip  something  new  to 
say  on  an  old  subject.  Mrs.  Dempster,  every  one  remarked, 
looked  more  miserable  than  ever,  though  she  kept  up  the  old 
pretense  of  being  happy  and  satisfied.  She  was  scarcely  ever 
seen,  as  she  used  to  be,  going  about  on  her  good-natured  er-* 
rands  ;  and  even  old  Mrs.  Crewe,  who  had  always  been  will- 
fully blind  to  any  thing  wrong  in  her  favorite  Janet,  was 
obliged  to  admit  that  she  had  not  seemed  like  herself  lately. 
"  The  poor  thing's  out  of  health,"  said  the  kind  little  old 
lady,  in  answer  to  all  gossip  about  Janet ;  "  her  headaches 
always  were  bad,  and  I  know  what  headaches  are :  why,  they 
make  one  quite  delirious  sometimes."  Mrs.  Phipps,  for  her 
part,  declared  she  would  never  accept  an  invitation  to  Demp- 
ster's again  ;  it  was  getting  so  very  disagreeable  to  go  there, 
Mrs.  Dempster  was  often  "  so  strange."  To  be  sure,  there 
were  dreadful  stories  about  the  way  Dempster  used  hi* 
wife ;  but  in  Mrs.  Phipps's  opinion,  it  was  six  of  one  and  half- 
a-dozen  of  the  other.  Mrs.  Dempster  had  never  been  like 
other  women  ;  she  had  always  a  nighty  way  with  her,  carry- 
ing parcels  of  snuff  to  old  Mrs.  Tooke,  and  going  to  drink 
tea  with  Mrs.  Brinley,  the  carpenter's  wife ;  and  then  never 
taking  care  of  her  clothes,  always  wearing  the  same  things 
week-day  or  Sunday.  A  man  has  a  poor  look-out  with  a 
wife  of  that  sort,-- Mr.  Phipps,  amiable  and  laconic,  wonder- 
ed how  it  was  women  were  so  fond  of  running  each  other 
down. 

Mr.  Pratt  having  been  called  in  provisionally  to  a  patient 
of  Mr.  Pilgrim's  in  a  case  of  compound  fracture,  observed  in 
a  friendly  colloquy  with  his  brother  surgeon  the  next  day, 

"  So  Dempster  has  left  off  driving  himself,  I  see  ;  he  won't 
end  with  a  broken  neck  after  all.  You'll  have  a  case  of  me- 
ningitis and  delirium  tremens  instead." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  "  he  can  hardly  stand  it  much 
longer  at  the  rate  he's  going  on,  one  would  think.  He's  been 
confoundedly  cut  up  about  that  business  of  Armstrong's,  I 
fancy.  It  may  do  him  some  harm,  perhaps,  but  Dempster 
must  have  feathered  his  nest  pretty  well ;  he  can  afford  to 
lose  a  little  business." 

"  His  business  will  outlast  him,  that's  pretty  clear,"  said 
Pratt ;  "  he'll  run  down  like  a  watch  with  a  broken  spring  one 
of  these  days." 

Another  prognostic  of  evil  to  Dempster  came  at  the  begin- 
ning of  March.  For  then  little  "  Mamsey  "  died — died  sud- 


270  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

denly.  The  housemaid  found  her  seated  motionless  in  her 
arm-chair,  her  knitting  fallen  down,  and  the  tortoise-shell  cat 
reposing  on  it  unreproved.  The  little  white  old  woman  had 
ended  her  Avintry  age  of  patient  sorrow,  believing  to  the  last 
that  "  Robert  might  have  been  a  good  husband  as  he  had 
been  a  good  son." 

When  the  earth  was  thrown  on  Mamsey's  coffin,  and  the 
son,  in  crape  scarf  and  hat-band,  turned  awsly  homeward,  his 
good  angel,  lingering  with  outstretched  wing  on  the  edge  of 
the  grave,  cast  one  despairing  look  after  him,  and  took  flight 
forever. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  last  week  in  March — three  weeks  after  old  Mrs.  Demp- 
ster died — occurred  the  unpleasant  winding-up  of  affairs  be- 
tween Dempster  and  Mr.  Pryme,  and  under  this  additional 
scarce  of  irritation  the  attorney's  diurnal  drunkenness  had 
taken  on  its  most  ill-tempered  and  brutal  phase.  On  the  Fri- 
day morning,  before  setting  out  for  Rotherbv,  he  told  his  wife 
that  he  had  invited  "  four  men  "  to  dinner  at  half  past  six  that 
evening.  The  previous  night  had  been  a  terribleone  for  Ja- 
net, and  when  her  husba4idjir^kclu&.grlmjai£)riji5g  silence  to 
say  these  few  words,  she  was  looking  so  blank  and  listless 
that  he  added  in  a  loud,  sharp  key,  "  Do  you  hear  what  I  say  ? 
or  must  I  tell  the  cook  ?"  She  started,  and  said,  "  Yes,  I 
hear." 

"  Then  mind  and  have  a  dinner  provided,  and  don't  go 
mooning  about  like  crazy  Jane." 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Mrs.  Raynor,  quietly  busy  in  her 
kitchen  with  her  household  labors — for  she  had  only  a  little 
twelve-year-old  girl  as  a  servant — heard  with  trembling  the 
rattling  of  the  garden  gate  and  the  opening  of  the  outer  door. 
She  knew  the  step,  and  in  one  short  moment  she  lived  before- 
hand through  the  coming  scene.  She  hurried  out  of  the 
kitchen,  and  there  in  the  passage,  as  she  had  felt,  stood  Janet, 
her  eyes  worn  as  if  by  night-long  watching,  her  dress  careless, 
her  step  languid.  No  cheerful  morning  greeting  to  her  moth- 
er— no  kiss.  She  turned  into  the  parlor,  and,  seating  herself 
on  the  sofa  opposite  her  mother's  chair,  looked  vacantly  at 
the  walls  and  furniture  until  the  coraers  of  her  mouth  began 
to  tremble,  and  her  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears  that  fell  un- 
wiped  down  her  cheeks.  The  mother  sat  silently  opposite  to 
her,  afraid  to  speak.  She  felt  sure  there  was  nothing  new  the 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  271 

matter — sure  that  the  torrent  of  words  would  come  sooner  or 
later. 

"  Mother !  why  don't  you  speak  to  me  ?"  Janet  burst  out 
at  last ;  "  you  don't  care  about  my  suffering  ;  you  are  blam- 
ing me  because  I  feel — because  I  am  miserable." 

"  My  child,  I  am  not  blaming  you — my  heart  is  bleeding 
for  you.     Your  head  is  bad  this  morning — you  have  had  a 
bad  night.     Let  me  make  you  a  cup  of  tea  now.     Perhaps 
f   you  didn't  like  your  breakfast." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  you  always  think,  mother.     It  is  the  old  \ 
story,  you  think.     You  don't  ask  me  what  it  is  I  have  had  to    ; 
bear.     You  are  tired  of  hearing  me.     You  are  cruel,  like  the  / 
j    rest ;  every  one  is  cruel  in  this  world.     Nothing  but  blame —  / 
blame — blame ;  never  any  pity.     God^ja  cruel  to  have  sent/ 
\  me  into  the  world  to  bear  all  this  misery. "~ 
V_X^rtTanetT  Jauat^xLau^'say  "BU.     Il'isnwt  for  us  to  judge  ;  we 
must  submit ;  we  must  be  thankful  for  the  gift  of  life." 

"Thankful  for  life!  Why  should  I  be  thankful  ?  God 
has  made  me  with  a  heart  to  feel,  and  He  has  sent  me 
nothing  but  misery.  How  could  I  help  it  ?  How  could  I 
know  what  would  come  ?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  mother  ? 
— why  did  you  let  me  marry?  YJH»  know  wfrf-t-  brutes  men 
could  be ;  aj]d  there's  no  help  for  me — no  hbpe.  l  canT  kill 
myself;  I've  tried ;  but  1  can't  le&V6  this  world  and  go  to 
another.  There  may  be  no  pi,ty  for  me  there,  as  there  is 
none  here." 

"  Janet,  my  child,  there  is  pity.  Have  I  ever  done  any 
thing  but  love  you  ?  And  there  is  pity  in  God.  Hasn't  He 
put  pity  into  your  heart  for  many  a  poor  sufferer?  Where 
did  it  come  from,  if  not  from  Him  ?" 

Janet's  nervous  irritation  now  broke  out  into  sobs  in- 
stead of  complainings  ;  and  her  mother  was  thankful,  for  af- 
ter that  crisis  there  would  very  likely  come  relenting,  and 
tenderness,  and  comparative  calm.  She  went  out  to  make 
some  tea,  and  when  she  returned  with  the  tray  in  her  hands, 
Janet  had  dried  her  eyes  and  now  turned  them  towards  her 
mother  with  a  faint  attempt  to  smile ;  but  the  poor  face,  in 
its  sad  blurred  beauty,  looked  all  the  more  piteous. 

"  Mother  will  insist  upon  her  tea,"  she  said,  "  and  I  really 
think  I  can  drink  a  cup.  But  I  must  go  home  directly,  for 
there  are  people  coming  to  dinner.  Could  you  go  with  me 
and  help  me,  mother  ?" 

Mrs.  Ray_nor  was  always  ready  to  do  that.  She  went  to 
Orchard  Street  with  Janet,  and  remained  with  her  through 
the  day — comforted,  as  evening  approached,  to  see  her  be- 
come more  cheerful  and  willing  to  attend  to  her  toilette. 


272  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

At  half  past  five  every  thing  was  in  order ;  Janet  vras  dress- 
ed ;  and  when  the  mother  had  kissed  her  and  said  good-bye, 
she  could  not  help  pausing  a  moment  in  sorrowful  admira- 
tion at  the  tall,  rich  figure,  looking  all  the  grander  for  the 
plainness  of  the  deep  mourning  dress,  and  the  noble  face 
with  its  massy  folds  of  black  hair,  made  matronly  by  a  sim- 
ple white  cap.  Janet  had  that  enduring  beauty  which  be- 
longs to  pure  majestic  outline  and  depth  of  tint.  Sorrow 
and  neglect  leave  their  traces  on  such  beauty,  but  it  thrills 
us  to  the  last,  like  a  glorious  Greek  temple,  which,  for  all  the 
loss  it  has  suffered  from  time  and  barbarous  hands,  has  gain- 
ed a  solemn  history,  and  fills  our  imagination  the  more  be- 
cause it  is  incomplete  to  the  sense. 

It  was  six  o'clock  before  Dempster  returned  from  Rother- 
by.  He  had  evidently  drunk  a  great  deal,  and  was  in  an  an- 
gry humor ;  but  Janet,  who  had  gathered  some  little  courage 
and  forbearance  from  the  consciousness  that  she  had  done 
her  best  to-day,  was  determined  to  speak  pleasantly  to  him. 

"  Robert,"  she  said  gently,  as  she  saw  him  seat  himself  in 
the  dining-room  in  his  dusty,  snuffy  clothes,  and  take  some 
documents  out  of  his  pocket,  "  will  you  not  wash  and  change 
your  dress?  It  will  refresh  you." 

"  Leave  me  alone,  will  you  V"  said  Dempster,  in  his  most 
brutal  tone. 

"  Do  change  your  coat  and  waistcoat,  they  are  so  dusty. 
I've  laid  all  your  things  out  ready." 

"  Oh,  you  have,  have  you  ?"  After  a  few  minutes  he  rose 
very  deliberately  and  walked  up  stairs  into  his  bedroom. 
Janet  had  often  been  scolded  before  for  not  laying  out  his 
clothes,  and  she  thought  now,  not  without  some  Avonder, 
that  this  attention  of  hers  had  brought  him  to  compliance. 

Presently,  he  called  out,  "  Janet !"  and  she  went  up  stairs. 

"  Here !  *  Take  that !"  he  said,  as  soon  as  she  readied  the 
door,  flinging  at  her  the  coat  she  had  laid  out.  4i  Another 
time,  leave  me  to  do  as  I  please,  will  you  ?" 

The  coat,  flung  with  great  force,  only  brushed  her  shoul- 
der, and  fell  some  distance  within  the  drawing-room,  the  door 
of  which  stood  open  just  opposite.  She  hastily  retreated  as 
she  saw  the  waistcoat  coming,  and  one  by  one  the  clothes 
she  had  laid  out  were  all  flung  into  the  drawing-room. 

Janet's  face  flushed  with  anger,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  her  resentment  overcame  the  long-cherished  pride 
that  made  her  hide  her  griefs  from  the  world.  There  are 
moments  when,  by  some  strange  impulse,  we  contradict  our 
past  selves — fatal  moments,  when  a  fit  of  passion,  like  a  lava 
stream,  lays  low  the  work  of  half  our  lives.  Janet  thought, 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  273 

"  I  will  not  pick  up  the  clothes  ;  they  shall  lie  there  until  the 
visitors  come,  and  he  shall  be  ashamed  of  himself." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  she  made  haste  to  seat 
herself  in  the  drawing-room,  lest  the  servant  should  enter 
and  remove  the  clothes,  which  were  lying  half  on  the  table 
and  half  on  the  ground.  Mr.  Low  me  entered  with  a  less  fa- 
miliar visitor,  a  client  of  Dempster's,  and  the  next  moment 
Dempster  himself  came  in. 

His  eye  fell  at  once  on  the  clothes,  and  then  turned  for  an 
instant  with  a  devilish  glance  of  concentrated  hatred  on 
Janet,  who,  still  flushed  and  excited,  affected  unconsciousness. 
After  shaking  hands  with  his  visitors  he  immediately  rang 
the  bell. 

"  Take  those  clothes  away,"  he  said  to  the  servant,  not 
looking  at  Janet  again. 

During  dinner,  she  kept  up  her  assumed  air  of  indifference, 
and  tried  to  seem  in  high  spirits,  laughing  and  talking  more 
than  usual,  fn  reality,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  defied  a  wild 
beast  within  the  four  walls  of  his  den,  and  he  was  crouching 
backward  in  preparation  for  his  deadly  spring.  Dempster 
affected  to  take  no  notice  of  her,  talked  obstreperously,  and 
drank  steadily. 

About  eleven  the  party  dispersed,  with  the  exception  of 
Mr.  Budd,  Avho  had  joined  them  after  dinner,  and  appeared 
disposed  to  stay  drinking  a  little  longer.  Janet  began  to 
hope  that  he  would  stay  long  enough  for  Dempster  to  be- 
come heavy  and  stupid,  and  so  to  fall  asleep  down  stairs, 
which  was  a  rare  but  occasional  ending  of  his  nights.  She 
told  the  servants  to  sit  up  no  longer,  and  she  herself  undressed 
and  went  to  bed,  trying  to  cheat  her  imagination  into  the  be- 
lief that  the  day  was  ended  for  her.  But  when  she  lay  down 
she  became  more  intensely  awake  than  ever.  Every  thing 
she  had  taken  this  evening  seemed  only  to  stimulate  her  senses 
and  her  apprehensions  to  new  vividness.  Her  heart  beat  vi- 
olently, and  she  heard  every  sound  in  the  house. 

At  last,  when  it  was  twelve,  she  heard  Mr.  Budd  go  out ; 
she  heard  the  door  slam.  Dempster  had  not  moved.  Was 
he  asleep  ?  Would  he  forget  ?  The  minute  seemed  long, 
while,  with  a  quickening  pulse,  she  was  on  the  stretch  to  catch 
every  sound. 

"  Janet !"  The  loud  jarring  voice  seemed  to  strike  her  like 
a  hurled  weapon. 

"  Janet !"  he  called  again,  moving  out  of  the  dining-room 
to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  minute. 

"  If  you  don't  come,  I'll  kill  you." 

12* 


274  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Another  pause,  and  she  heard  him  turn  back  into  the  din- 
ing-room. He  was  gone  for  a  light — perhaps  for  a  weapon. 
Perhaps  he  would  kill  her.  Let  him.  Life  was  as  hideous  as 
death.  For  years  she  had  been  rushing  on  to  some  unknown 
but  certain  horror;  and  now  she  was  close  upon  it.  She  was 
almost  glad.  She  was  in  a  state  of  flushed,  feverish  defiance 
that  neutralized  her  woman's  terrors. 

She  heard  his  heavy  step  on  the  stairs  ;  she  saw  the  slow- 
ly advancing  light.  Then  she  saw  the  tall,  massive  figure, 
and  the  heavy  face,  now  fierce  with  drunken  rage.  He  had 
nothing  but  the  candle  in  his  hand.  He  set  it  down  on  the 
table  and  advanced  close  to  the  bed. 

"  So  you  think  you'll  defy  me,  do  you  ?  We'll  see  how 
long  that  will  last.  Get  up,  madam;  out  of  bed  this  in- 
stant !" 

In  the  close  presence  of  the  dreadful  man — of  this  huge 
crushing  force,  armed  with  savage  will — poor  Janet's  despe- 
rate defiance  all  forsook  her,  and  her  terrors  came  back. 
Trembling  she  got  up,  and  stood  helpless  in  her  night-dress 
before  her  husband. 

He  seized  her  with  his  heavy  grasp  by  the  shoulder,  and 
pushed  her  before  him. 

"  I'll  cool  your  hot  spirit  for  you  !  I'll  teach  you  to  brave 
me  !" 

Slowly  he  pushed  her  along  before  him,  down  stairs  and 
through  the  passage,  where  a  small  oil  lamp  was  still  flicker- 
ing. What  was  he  going  to  do  to  her  ?  She  thought  every 
moment  he  was  going  to  dash  her  before  him  on  the  ground.. 
But  she  gave  no  scream — she  only  trembled. 

He  pushed  her  on  to  the  entrance  and  held  her  firmly  in 
his  grasp  while  he  lifted  the  latch  of  the  door.  Then  he 
opened  the  door  a  little  way,  thrust  her  out,  and  slammed  it 
behind  her. 

For  a  short  space  it  seemed  like  a  deliverance  to  Janet. 
The  harsh  north-east  wind  that  blew  through  her  thin  night- 
dress, and  sent  her  long  heavy  black  hair  streaming,  seemed 
like  the  breath  of  pity  after  the  grasp  of  that  threatening 
monster.  But  soon  the  sense  of  release  from  an  overpower- 
ering  terror  gave  way  before  the  sense  of  the  fate  that  had 
really  come  upon  her. 

This,  then,  was  what  she  had  been  travelling  towards 
through  her  long  years  of  misery !  Not  yet  death.  Oh  ! 
if  she  had  been  brave  enough  for  it,  death  would  have  been 
better.  The  servants  slept  at  the  back  of  the  house  ;  it  was 
impossible  to  make  them  hear,  so  that  they  might  let  her  in 
again  quietly  without  her  husband's  knowledge.  And  she 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  275 

would  not  have  tried.     He  had  thrust  her  out,  and  it  should 
be  forever. 

There  would  have  been  dead  silence  in  Orchard  Street 
but  for  the  whistling  of  the  wind  and  the  swirling  of  the 
March  dust  on  the  pavement.  Thick  clouds  covered  the  sky ; 
every  door  was  closed ;  every  window  was  dark.  No  ray  of 
light  fell  on  the  tall  white  figure  that  stood  in  lonely  misery 
on  the  doorstep ;  no  eye  rested  on  Janet  as  she  sank  down 
on  the  cold  stone,  and  looked  into  the  dismal  night.  She 
seemed  to  be  looking  into  her  own  blank  future. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  stony  street,  the  bitter  north-east  wind  and  darkness 
— and  in  the  midst  of  them  a  tender  woman  thrust  out  from 
her  husband's  home  in  her  thin  night-dress,  the  harsh  wind 
cutting  her  naked  feet,  and  driving  her  long  hair  away  from 
her  half-clad  bosom,  where  the  poor  heart  is  crushed  with  an- 
guish and  despair. 

The  drowning  man,  urged  by  the  supreme  agony,  lives  in 
an  instant  through  all  his  happy  and  unhappy  past :  when 
the  dark  flood  has  fallen  like  a  curtain,  memory,  in  a  single 
moment,  sees  the  drama  acted  over  again.  And  even  in 
those  earlier  crises,  which  are  but  types  of  death — when  we 
are  cut  off  abruptly  from  the  life  we  have  known,  when  we 
can  no  longer  expect  to-morrow  to  resemble  yesterday,  and 
find  ourselves  by  some  sudden  shock  on  the  confines  of  the 
unknown — there  is  often  the  same  sort  of  lightning-flash 
through  the  dark  and  unfrequented  chambers  of  memory. 

When  Janet  sat  down  shivering  on  the  door-stone,  with 
the  door  shut  upon  her  past  life,  and  the  future  black  and 
unshapen  before  her  as  the  night,  the  scenes  of  her  childhood, 
her  youth,  and  her  painful  womanhood,  rushed  back  upon  her 
consciousness,  and  made  one  picture  with  her  present  desola- 
tion. The  petted  child  taking  her  newest  toy  to  bed  with 
her — the  young  girl,  proud  in  strength  and  beauty,  dreaming 
that  life  was  an  easy  thing,  and  that  it  was  pitiful  weakness  to 
be  unhappy — the  bride,  passing  with  trembling  joy  from  the 
outer  court  to  the  inner  sanctuary  of  woman's  life — the  wife, 
beginning  her  initiation  into  sorrow,  wounded,  resenting,  yet 
stitl  hoping  and  forgiving — the  poor  bruised  woman,  seeking 
through  weary  years  the  one  refuge  of  despair,  oblivion : — 
Janet  seemed  to  herself  all  these  in  the  same  moment  that 


276  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

she  was  conscious  of  being  seated  on  the  cold  stone  under 
the  shock  of  a  new  misery.  All  her  early  gladness,  all  her 
bright  hopes  and  illusions,  all  her  gifts  of  beauty  and  affection, 
served  only  to  darken  the  riddle  of  her  life ;  they  were  the 
betraying  promises  of  a  cruel  destiny  which  had  brought  out 
those  sweet  blossoms  only  that  the  winds  and  storms  might 
have  a  greater  work  of  desolation,  which  had  nursed  her  like 
a  pet  fawn  into  tenderness  and  fond  expectation,  only  that 
she  might  feel  a  keener  terror  in  the  clutch  of  the  panther. 
Her  mother  had  sometimes  said  that  troubles  were  sent  to 
make  us  better  and  draw  us  nearer  to  God.  What  mockery 
that  seemed  to  Janet !  Her  troubles  had  been  sinking  her 
lower  from  year  to  year,  pressing  upon  her  like  heavy  fever- 
laden  vapors,  and  perverting  the  very  plenitude  of  her  na- 
ture into  a  deeper  source  of  disease.  Her  wretchedness  had 
been  a  perpetually  tightening  instrument  of  torture,  which  had 
gradually  absorbed  all  the  other  sensibilities  of  her  nature 
into  the  sense  of  pain  and  the  maddened  craving  for  relief. 
Oh,  if  some  ray  of  hope,  of  pity,  of  consolation,  would  pierce 
through  the  horrible  gloom,  she  might  believe  then  in.  a  Di- 
vine love — in  a  heavenly  Father  who  cared  for  His  children  ! 
But  now  she  had  no  faith,  no  trust.  There  was  nothing  she 
could  lean  on  in  the  wide  world,  for  her  mother  was  only  a 
fellow-sufferer  in  her  own  lot.  The  poor  patient  woman 
could  do  little  more  than  mourn  with  her  daughter :  she  had 
humble  resignation  enough  to  sustain  her  own  soul,  but  she 
could  no  more  give  comfort  and  fortitude  to  Janet,  than  the 
withered  ivy-covered  trunk  can  bear  up  its  strong,  full-boughed 
offspring  crashing  down  under  an  Alpine  storm.  Janet 
felt  she  was  alone :  no  human  soul  had  measured  her  anguish, 
had  understood  her  self-despair,  had  entered  into  her  sorrows 
and  her  sins  with  that  deep-sighted  sympathy  which  is  wiser 
than  all  blame,  more  potent  than  all  reproof — such  sympathy 
as  had  swelled  her  own  heart  for  many  a  sufferer.  And  if 
there  was  any  Divine  Pity,  she  could  not  feel  it ;  it  kept 
aloof  from  her,  it  poured  no  balm  into  her  wounds,  it  stretch- 
ed out  no  hand  to  bear  up  her  weak  resolve,  to  fortify  her 
fainting  courage. 

Now,  in  her  utmost  loneliness,  she  shed  no  tear :  she  sat 
staring  fixedly  into  the  darkness,  while  inwardly  she  gazed 
at  her  own  past,  almost  losing  the  sense  that  it  was  her  own, 
or  that  she  was  any  thing  more  than  a  spectator  at  a  strange 
and  dreadful  play. 

The  loud  sound  of  the  church  clock,  striking  one,  startled 
her.  She  had  not  been  there  more  than  half  an  hour,  then  ? 
And  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  there  half  the  niirht. 


JANETS  REPENTANCE.  277 

She  was  getting  benumbed  with  cold.  With  that  strong  in- 
stinctive dread  of  pain  and  death  which  had  made  her  recoil 
from  suicide,  she  started  up,  and  the  disagreeable  sensation 
of  resting  on  her  benumbed  feet  helped  to  recall  her  complete- 
ly to  the  sense  of  the  present.  The  wind  was  beginning  to 
make  rents  in  the  clouds,  and  there  came  every  now  and  then 
a  dim  light  of  stars  that  frightened  her  more  than  the  dark- 
ness ;  it  was  like  a  cruel  finger  pointing  her  out  in  her  wretch- 
edness and  humiliation  ;  it  made  her  shudder  at  the  thought 
of  the  morning  twilight.  What  could  she  do !  Not  go  to 
her  mother — not  rouse  her  in  the  dead  of  night  to  tell  her 
this.  Her  mother  would  think  she  was  a  spectre ;  it  would 
be  enough  to  kill  her  with  horror.  And  the  way  there  was 
so  long  ....  if  she  should  meet  some  one  ....  yet  she 
must  seek  some  shelter,  somewhere  to  hide  herself.  Five 
doors  off  there  was  Mrs.  Pettifer's  ;  that  kind  woman  would 
take  her  in.  It  was  of  no  use  now  to  be  proud  and  mind 
about  the  world's  knowing:  she  had  nothing  to  wish  for, 
nothing  to  care  about ;  only  she  could  not  help  shuddering  at 
the  thought  of  braving  the  morning  light,  there  in  the  street 
— she  was  frightened  at  the  thought  of  spending  long  hours 
in  the  cold.  Life  might  mean  anguish,  might  mean  despair  ; 
but — oh,  she  must  clutch  it,  though  with  bleeding  fingers ; 
her  feet  must  cling  to  the  firm  earth  that  the  sunlight  would 
revisit,  not  slip  into  the  untried  abyss,  where  she  might  long 
even  for  familiar  pains. 

Janet  trod  slowly  with  her  naked  feet  on  the  rough  pave- 
ment, trembling  at  the  fitful  gleams  of  starlight,  and  support- 
ing herself  by  the  wall,  as  the  gusts  of  wind  drove  right 
against  her.  The  very  wind  was  cruel ;  it  tried  to  push  her 
back  from  the  door  where  she  wanted  to  go  and  knock  and 
ask  for  pity. 

Mrjs.  Pet.tifer^»  house  did  not  look  into  Orchard  Street ;  it 
stood  a  little  way  up  a  wide  passage  which  opened  into  the 
street  through  an  archway.  Janet  turned  up  the  archway, 
and  saw  a  faint  light  coming  from  Mrs.  Pettifer's  bed-room 
window.  The  glimmer  of  a  rushlight  from  a  room  where  a 
friend  was  lying,  was  like  a  ray  of  mercy  to  Janet,  after  that 
long,  long  time  of  darkness  and  loneliness  ;  it  would  not  be 
so  dreadful  to  awake  Mrs.  Pettifer  as  she  had  thought.  Yet 
she  lingered  some  minutes  at  the  door  before  she  gathered 
courage  to  knock ;  she  felt  as  if  the  sound  must  betray  her 
to  others  besides  Mrs.  Pettifer,  though  there  was  no  other 
dwelling  that  opened  into  the  passage — only  warehouses  and 
outbuildings.  There  was  no  gravel  for  her  to  throw  up  at 
the  window,  nothing  but  heavy  pavement ;  there  was  no 


278  SCENES    OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

door-bell ;  she  must  knock.  Her  first  rap  was  very  timid — 
one  feeble  fall  of  the  knocker ;  and  then  she  stood  still  again 
for  many  minutes ;  but  presently  she  rallied  her  courage  and 
knocked  several  times  together,  not  loudly,  but  rapidly,  so 
that  Mrs.  Pettifer,  if  she  only  heard  the  sound,  could  not  mis- 
take it.  And  she  had  heard  it,  for  by-and-by  the  casement 
of  her  window  was  opened,  and  Janet  perceived  that  she 
was  bending  out  to  try  and  discern  who  it  was  at  the  door. 

"  It  is  I,  Mrs.  Pettifer ;  it  is  Janet  Dempster.  Take  me  in, 
for  pity's  sake." 

"  Merciful  God  !  what  has  happened  ?" 

"  Robert  has  turned  me  out.  I  have  been  in  the  cold  a 
long  while." 

Mrs.  Pettifer  said  no  more,  but  hurried  away  from  the  win- 
dow, and  was  soon  at  the  door  with  a  light  in  her  hand. 

"  Come  in,  my  poor  dear,  come  in,"  said  the  good  woman 
in  a  tremulous  voice,  drawing  Janet  within  the  door.  "  Come 
into  my  warm  bed,  and  may  God  in  heaven  save  and  comfort 
you." 

The  pitying  eyes,  the  tender  voice,  the  warm  touch, 
caused  a  rush  of  new  feeling  in  Janet.  Her  heart  swelled, 
and  she  burst  out  suddenly,  like  a  child,  into  loud,  passionate 
sobs.  Mrs.  Pettifer  could  not  help  crying  with  her,  but  she 
said,  "  Come  up-stairs,  my  dear,  come.  Don't  linger  in  the 
cold." 

She  drew  the  poor  sobbing  thing  gently  up  stairs,  and  per- 
suaded her  to  get  into  the  warm  bed.  But  it  was  long  be- 
fore Janet  could  lie  down.  She  sat  leaning  her  head  on  her 
knees,  convulsed  by  sobs,  while  the  motherly  woman  covered 
her  with  clothes,  and  held  her  ai'ms  round  her  to  comfort  her 
with  warmth.  At  last  the  hysterical  passion  had  exhausted 
itself,  and  she  fell  back  on  the  pillow ;  but  her  throat  was 
still  agitated  by  piteous  after-sobs,  such  as  shake  a  little 
child  even  when  it  has  found  a  refuge  from  its  alarms  on  its 
mother's  lap. 

Now  Janet  was  getting  quieter,  Mrs.  Pettifer  determined 
to  go  down  and  make  a  cup  of  tea,  the  first  thing  a  kind  old 
woman  thinks  of  as  a  solace  and  restorative  under  all  calam- 
ities. Happily  there  was  no  danger  of  awaking  her  servant, 
a  heavy  girl  of  sixteen,  who  was  snoring  blissfully  in  the  attic, 
and  might  be  kept  ignorant  of  the  way  in  which  Mrs.  Demp- 
ster had  come  in.  So  Mrs.  Pettifer  busied  herself  with  rousing 
the  kitchen  fire,  which  was  kept  in  under  a  huge  "raker" — 
a  possibility  by  which  the  coal  of  the  midland  counties  atones 
for  all  its  slowness  and  white  ashes. 

When  she  carried  up  the  tea,  Janet  was  lying  quite 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  279 

the  spasmodic  agitation  had  ceased,  and  she  seemed  lost  in 
thought;  her  eyes  were  fixed  vacantly  on  the  rushlight 
shade,  and  all  the  lines  of  sorrow  were  deepened  in  her 
face. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer, "  let  me  persuade  you 
to  drink  a  cup  of  tea;  you'll  find  it  warm  you  and  soothe 
you  very  much.  Why,  dear  heart,  your  feet  are  like  ice  still. 
Now,  do  drink  this  tea,  and  I'll  wrap  'em  up  in  flannel,  and 
then  they'll  get  warm." 

Janet  turned  her  dark  eyes  on  her  old  friend  and  stretch- 
ed out  her  arms.  She  was  too  much  oppressed  to  say  any 
thing ;  her  suiFering  lay  like  a  heavy  weight  on  her  power 
of  speech;  but  she  wanted  to  kiss  the  good  kind  woman. 
Mrs.  Pettifer,  setting  down  the  cup,  bent  towards  the  sad, 
beautiful  face,  and  Janet  kissed  her  with  earnest  sacramental 
kisses — such  kisses  as  seal  a  new  and  closer  bond  between 
the  helper  and  the  helped. 

She  drank  the  tea  obediently.  "  It  does  warm  me,"  she 
said.  "  But  now  you  will  get  into  bed.  I  shall  lie  still  now." 

Mrs.  Pettifer  felt  it  Avas  the  best  thing  she  could  do  to  lie 
down  quietly  and  say  no  more.  She  hoped  Janet  might  go 
to  sleep.  As  for  herself,  with  that  tendency  to  wakefulness 
common  to  advanced  years,  she  found  it  impossible  to  com- 
pose herself  to  sleep  again  after  this  agitating  surprise.  She 
lay  listening  to  the  clock,  wondering  what  had  led  to  this 
new  outrage  of  Dempster's,  praying  for  the  poor  thing  at  her 
side,  and  pitying  the  mother  who  would  have  to  hear  it  all  to- 
morrow. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

JANET  lay  still,  as  she  had  promised ;  but  the  tea,  which 
had  warmed  her  and  given  her  a  sense  of  greater  bodily  ease, 
had  only  heightened  the  previous  excitement  of  her  brain. 
Her  ideas  had  a  new  vividness,  which  made  her  feel  as  if  she 
had  only  seen  life  through  a  dim  haze  before ;  her  thoughts, 
instead  of  springing  from  the  action  of  her  own  mind,  were 
external  existences,  that  thrust  themselves  imperiously  upon 
her  like  haunting  visions.  The  future  took  shape  after  shape 
of  misery  before  her,  always  ending  in  her  being  dragged 
back  again  to  her  old  life  of  terror,  and  stupor,  and  fevered 
despair.  Her  husband  had  so  long  overshadowed  her  life 
that  her  imagination  Could  riot  keep  holer  of  a  condition  in 
which  that  great  dread  was  absent ;  and  even  his  absence—' 


J80  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

what  was  it  ?  only  a  dreary,  vacant  flat,  where  there  was 
nothing  to  strive  after,  nothing  to  long  for. 

At  last,  the  light  of  morning  quenched  the  rushlight,  and 
Janet's  thoughts  became  more  and  more  fragmentary  and 
confused.  She  was  every  moment  slipping  off  the  level  on 
which  she  lay  thinking,  down,  down  into  some  depth  from 
which  she  tried  to  rise  again  with  a  start.  Slumber  was 
stealing  over  her  weary  brain :  that  uneasy  slumber  which  is 
only  better  than  wretched  waking,  because  the  life  we  seemed 
to  live  in  it  determines  no  wretched  future,  because  the  things 
we  do  and  suffer  in  it  are  but  hateful  shadows,  and  leave  no 
impress  that  petrifies  into  an  irrevocable  past. 

She  had  scarcely  been  asleep  an  hour  when  her  movements 
became  more  violent,  her  mutterings  more  frequent  and  agi- 
tated, till  at  last  she  started  up  with  a  smothered  cry,  and 
looked  wildly  round  her,  shaking  with  terror. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,"  said  Mrs.  Pet- 
tifer,  who  was  up  and  dressing,  "  you  are  with  me,  your  old 
friend,  Mi's.  Pettifer.  Nothing  will  harm  you." 

Janet  sank  back  again  on  her  pillow,  still  trembling. 
After  lying  silent  a  little  while,  she  said, "  It  was  a  horrible 
dream.  Dear  Mrs.  Pettifer,  don't  let  any  one  know  I  am 
here.  Keep  it  a  secret.  If  he  finds  out,  he  will  come  and 
drag  me  back  again." 

"  No,  my  dear,  depend  on  me.  I've  just  thought  I  shall 
send  the  servant  home  on  a  holiday — I've  promised  her  a 
good  while.  I'll  send  her  away  as  soon  as  she's  had  her 
breakfast,  and  she'll  have  no  occasion  to  know  you're  here. 
There's  no  holding  servants'  tongues,  if  you  let  'em  know  any 
thing.  What  they  don't  know,  they  won't  tell;  you  may 
trust  'em  so  far.  But  shouldn't  you  like  me  to  go  and  fetch 
your  mother  ?" 

"  No,  not  yet,  not  yet.    I  can't  bear  to  see  her  yet." 

"  Well,  it  shall  be  just  as  you  like.  Now  try  and  get  to 
sleep  again.  I  shall  leave  you  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  send 
off  Phoebe,  and  then  bring  you  some  breakfast.  I'll  lock  the 
door  behind  me,  so  that  the  girl  mayn't  come  in  by  chance." 

The  daylight  changes  the  aspect  of  misery  to  us,  as  of 
every  thing  else.  In  "the  night  it  presses  on  our  imagination 
— the  forms  it  takes  are  false,  fitful,  exaggerated ;  in  broad 
day  it  sickens  our  sense  with  the  dreary  persistence  of  defi- 
nite measurable  reality.  The  man  who  looks  with  ghastly 
horror  on  all  his  property  aflame  in  the  dead  of  night,  has  not 
\\alf  the  sense  of  destitution  he  will  have  in  the  morning, 
when  he  walks  over  the  ruins  lying  blackened  in  the  pitiless 
sunshine.  That  moment  of  intensest  depression  was  come  tJ 


TANET'S  REPENTAXCE.  281 

Janet,  when  the  daylight  which  showed  her  the  walls,  and 
chairs,  and  tables,  and  all  the  commonplace  reality  that  sur- 
rounded her,  seemed  to  lay  bare  the  future  too,  and  bring  out 
into  oppressive  distinctness  all  the  details  of  a  weary  life  to 
be  lived  from  day  to  day,  with  no  hope  to  strengthen  her 
against  that  evil  habit,  which  she  loathed  in  retrospect  and 
yet  was  powerless  to  resist.  Her  husband  would  never  con- 
sent to  her  living  away  from  him :  she  was  become  necessary 
to  his  tyranny  ;  he  would  never  willingly  loosen  his  grasp  on 
her.  She  had  a  vague  notion  of  some  protection  the  law 
might  give  her,  if  she  could  prove  her  life  in  danger  from  him ; 
but  she  shrank  utterly,  as  she  had  always  done,  from  any  act- 
ive, public  resistance  or  vengeance :  she  felt  too  crushed,  too 
faulty,  too  liable  to  reproach,  to  have  the  courage,  even  if  she 
had  had  the  wish  to  put  herself  openly  in  the  position  of  a 
wronged  woman  seeking  redress.  She  had  no  strength  to  sus- 
tain her  in  a  course  of  self-defense  and  independence :  there  was 
a  darker  shadow  over  her  life  than  the  dread  of  her  husband — 
it  was  the  shadow  of  self-despair.  The  easiest  thing  would 
be  to  go  away  and  hide  herself  from  him.  But  then  there 
was  her  mother :  Robert  had  all  her  little  property  in  his 
hands,  and  that  little  was  scarcely  enough  to  keep  her  in  com- 
fort without  his  aid.  If  Janet  went  away  alone  he  would  be 
sure  to  persecute  her  mother ;  and  if  she  did  go  away — what 
then?  She  must  work  to  maintain  herself;  she  must  exert 
herself,  weary  and  hopeless  as  she  was,  to  begin  life  afresh. 
How  hard  that  seemed  to  her !  Janet's  nature  did  not  belie 
her  grand  face  and  form:  there  was  energy,  there  was 
strength  in  it ;  but  it  was  the  strength  of  the  vine,  which 
must  have  its  broad  leaves  and  rich  clusters  borne  up  by  a 
firm  stay.  And  now  she  had  nothing  to  rest  on — no  faith,  no 
love.  If  her  mother  had  been  very  feeble,  aged,  or  sickly, 
Janet's  deep  pity  and  tenderness  might  have  made  a  daugh- 
ter's duties  an  interest  and  a  solace ;  but  Mrs.  Raynor  had 
never  needed  tendance ;  she  had  always  been  giving  help  to 
her  daughter ;  she  had  always  been  a  sort  of  humble  minister- 
ing spirit ;  and  it  was  one  of  Janet's  pangs  of  memory,  that 
instead  of  being  her  mother's  comfort,  she  had  been  her  moth- 
er's trial.  Everywhere  the  same  sadness  !  Her  life  was  a 
sun-dried,  barren  tract,  where  there  was  no  shadow  and  where 
all  the  waters  were  bitter. 

No!  She  suddenly  thought — and  the  thought  was  like 
an  electric  shock — there  was  one  spot  in  her  memory  which 
seemed  to  promise  her  an  untried  spring,  where  the  waters 
might  be  sweet.  That  short  interview  with  Mr.  Tryan  had 
come  back  upon  her — his  voice,  his  words,  his  look,  which  told 


282  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

her  that  he  knew  sorrow.  His  words  had  implied  that  he 
thought  his  death  was  near ;  yet  he  had  a  faith  which  enabled 
him  to  labor — enabled  him  to  give  comfort  to  others.  That 
look  of  his  came  back  on  her  with  a  vividness  greater  than  it 
had  had  for  her  in  reality :  surely  he  knew  more  of  the  secrets 
\  of  sorrow  than  other  men  ;  perhaps  he  had  some  message  of 
\  xjomfort,  different  from  the  feeble  words  she  had  been  used  to 
\f  hear  from  others.  She  was  tired,  she  was  sick  of  that  barren 
/  \  exhortation — Do  right,  and  keep  a  clear  conscience,  and  God 
\will  reward  you,  and  your  troubles  will  be  easier  to  bear. 
She  wanted  strength  to  do  right — she  wanted  something  to 
rely  on  besides  her  own  resolutions  ;  for  was  not  the  path  be- 
hind her  all  strewn  with  broken  resolutions  ?  How  could  she 
trust  in  new  ones  ?  She  had  often  heard  Mr.  Tryan  laughed 
at  for  being  fond  of  great  sinners.  She  began  to  see  a  new 
meaning  in  those  words;  he  would  perhaps  understand  her 
helplessness,  her  wants.  If  she  could  pour  out  her  heart  to 
him  !  if  she  could  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  unlock  all  the 
chambers  of  her  soul ! 

The  impulse  to  confession  almost  always  requires  the  pres- 
ence of  a  fresh  ear  and  a  fresh  heart ;  and  in  our  moments  of 
spiritual  need,  the  man  to  whom  we  have  no  tie  but  our  com- 
mon nature,  seems  nearer  to  us  than  mother,  brother,  or  friend. 
Our  daily  familiar  life  is  but  a  hiding  of  ourselves  from  each 
other  behind  a  screen  of  trivial  words  and  deeds,  and  those 
who  sit  with  us  at  the  same  hearth  are  often  the  farthest  off 
from  the  deep  human  soul  within  us,  full  of  unspoken  evil  and 
unacted  good. 

When  Mrs.  Pettifer  came  back  to  her,  turning  the  key  and 
opening  the  door  very  gently,  Janet,  instead  of  being  asleep, 
as  her  good  friend  had  hoped,  was  intensely  occupied  with 
her  new  thought.  She  longed  to  ask  Mrs.  Pettifer  if  she 
could  see  Mr.  Tryan  ;  but  she  was  arrested  by  doubts  and  ti- 
midity. He  might  not  feel  for  her — he  might  be  shocked  at 
her  confession — lie  might  talk  to  her  of  doctrines  she  could 
not  understand  or  believe.  She  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
yet ;  but  she  was  too  restless  under  this  mental  struggle  to 
remain  in  bed. 

"  Mrs.  Pettifer,"  she  said,  "  I  can't  lie  here  any  longer ;  I 
must  get  up.  Will  you  lend  me  some  clothes  ?" 

Wrapt  in  such  drapery  as  Mrs.  Pettifer  could  find  for  her 
tall  figure,  Janet  went  down  into  the  little  parlor,  and  tried 
to  take  some  of  the  breakfast  her  friend  had  prepared  for  her. 
But  her  effort  was  not  a  successful  one  ;  her  cup  of  tea  and 
bit  of  toast  were  only  half  finished.  The  leaden  weight  of 
discouragement  pressed  upon  her  more  and  more  heavily. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  283 

The  wind  had  fallen,  and  a  drizzling  rain  had  come  on ;  there 
was  no  prospect  from  Mrs.  Pettifer's  parlor  but  a  blahk  wall ; 
and  as  Janet  looked  out  at  the  window,  the  rain  and  the 
smoke-blackened  bricks  seemed  to  blend  themselves  in  sick- 
ening identity  with  her  desolation  of  spirit  and  the  headachy 
weariness  of  her  body. 

Mrs.  Pettifer  got  through  her  household  work  as  soon  as 
she  could,  and  sat  down  with  her  sewing,  hoping  that  Janet 
would  perhaps  be  able  to  talk  a  little  of  what  had  passed,  and 
find  some  relief  by  unbosoming  herself  in  that  way.  But  Ja- 
net could  not  speak  to  her;  she  was  importuned  with  the 
longing  to  see  Mr.  Tryan,  and  yet  hesitating  to  express  it. 

Two  hours  passed  in  this  way.  The  rain  went  on  driz- 
zling, and  Janet  sat  still,  leaning  her  aching  head  on  her  hand, 
and  looking  alternately  at  the  fire  and  out  of  the  window. 
She  felt  this  could  not  last — this  motionless,  vacant  misery. 
She  must  determine  on  something,  she  must  take  some  step  ; 
and  yet  every  thing  was  so  difficult. 

It  was  one  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Pettifer  rose  from  her  seat, 
saying, "  I  must  go  and  see  about  dinner." 

The  movement  and  the  sound  startled  Janet  from  her  rev- 
erie. It  seemed  as  if  an  opportunity  were  escaping  her,  and 
she  said  hastily,  "  Is  Mr.  Tryan  in  the  town  to-day,  do  you 
think  ?" 

"•No, I  should  think  not, being  Saturday, you  know,"  said 
Mrs.  Pettifer,  her  face  lighting  up  with  pleasure;  "but  he 
would  come,  if  he  was  sent  for.  I  can  send  Jcsson's  boy  with 
a  note  to  him  any  time.  Should  you  like  to  see  him  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  should." 

"  Then  I'll  send  for  him  this  instant." 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

WHEN  Dempster  awoke  in  the  morning,  he  was  at  no  loss 
to  account  to  himself  for  the  fact  that  Janet  was  not  by  his 
side.  His  hours  of  drunkenness  were  not  cut  off  from  his  oth- 
er hours  by  any  blank  wall  of  oblivion ;  he  remembered  what 
Janet  had  done  to  offend  him  the  evening  before,  he  remem- 
bered what  he  had  done  to  her  at  midnight,  just  as  he  would 
have  remembered  if  he  had  been  consulted  about  a  right  of 
road. 

The  remembrance  gave  him  a  definite  ground  for  the  extra 
ill-humor  which  had  attended  his  waking  every  morning  this 


284  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

week,  but  he  would  not  admit  to  himself  that  it  cost  him  any 
anxiety.  "  Pooh,"  he  said  inwardly, "  she  would  go  straight 
to  her  mother's.  She's  as  timid  as  a  hare ;  and  she'll  never 
let  any  body  know  about  it.  She'll  be  back  again  before 
night." 

But  it  would  be  as  well  for  the  servants  not  to  know  any 
thing  of  the  affair :  so  he  collected  the  clothes  she  had  taken 
off  the  night  before,  and  threw  them  into  a  fire-proof  closet 
of  which  he  always  kept  the  key  in  his  pocket.  When  he 
went  down  stairs  he  said  to  the  housemaid, "  Mrs.  Dempster 
is  gone  to  her  mother's  ;  bring  in  the  breakfast." 

The  servants,  accustomed  to  hear  domestic  broils,  and  to 
see  their  mistress  put  on  her  bonnet  hastily  and  go  to  her 
mother's,  thought  it  only  something  a  little  worse  than  usual 
that  she  should  have  gone  thither  in  consequence  of  a  violent 
quarrel,  either  at  midnight,  or  in  the  early  morning  before 
they  were  up.  The  housemaid  told  the  cook  what  she  sup- 
posed  had  happened  ;  the  cook  shook  her  head  and  said,  "  Eh, 
dear,  dear  !"  but  they  both  expected  to  see  their  mistress  back 
again  in  an  hour  or  two. 

Dempster,  on  his  return  home  the  evening  before,  had  or- 
dered his  man,  who  lived  away  from  the  house,  to  bring  up  his 
horse  and  gig  from  the  stables  at  ten.  After  breakfast  he 
said  to  the  housemaid,  "  No  one  need  sit  up  for  me  to-night ; 
I  shall  not  be  at  home  till  to-morrow  evening  ;"  and  then  he 
walked  to  the  office  to  give  some  orders,  expecting,  as  he  re- 
turned, to  see  the  man  waiting  with  his  gig.  But  though  the 
church  clock  had  struck  ten,  no  gig  was  there.  In  Dempster's 
mood  this  was  more  than  enough  to  exasperate  him.  He 
went  in  to  take  his  accustomed  glass  of  brandy  before  setting 
out,  promising  himself  the  satisfaction  of  presently  thunder- 
ing at  Dawes  for  being  a  few  minutes  behind  his  time.  An 
outbreak  of  temper  towards  his  man  was  not  common  with 
him  ;  for  Dempster,  like  most  tyrannous  people,  had  that  das- 
tardly kind  of  self-restraint  which  enabled  him  to  control  his 
temper  where  it  suited  his  own  convenience  to  do  so ;  and 
feeling  the  value  of  Dawes,  a  steady,  punctual  fellow,  he  not 
only  gave  him  high  wages,  but  usually  treated  him  with  ex- 
ceptional civility.  This  morning,  however,  ill-humor  got  the 
better  of  prudence,  and  Dempster  was  determined  to  rate  him 
soundly ;  a  resolution  for  which  Dawes  gave  him  much  better 
ground  than  he  expected.  Five  minutes,  ten  minutes,  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour,  had  passed,  and  Dempster  was  setting  off  to 
the  stables  in  a  back  street  to  see  what  was  the  cause  of  the 
delay,  when  Dawes  appeared  with  the  gig. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  keep  me  here  for  ?"  thundered 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  285 

Dempster,  "  kicking  my  heels  like  A  beggarly  tailor  waiting 
for  a  carrier's  cart  ?  I  ordered  you  to  be  here  at  ten.  We 
might  have  driven  to  Whitlow  by  this  time." 

"  Why,  one  o'  the  traces  was  welly  i'  two,  an'  I  had  to 
take  it  to  Brady's  to  be  mended,  an'  he  didn't  get  it  done  i' 
time." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  take  it  to  him  last  night  ?  Because 
of  your  damned  laziness,  I  suppose.  Do  you  think  I  give  you 
wages  for  you  to  choose  your  own  hours,  and  come  dawdling 
up  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  my  time  ?" 

"  Come,  give  me  good  words,  will  yer  ?"  said  Dawes,  sulk- 
ily. "  I'm  not  lazy,  nor  no  man  shall  call  me  lazy.  I  know 
well  anuft*  what  you  gi'  me  wages  for ;  it's  for  doiii'  what  yer 
won't  find  many  men  as  'nil  do." 

"  What,  you  impudent  scoundrel,"  said  Dempster,  getting 
into  the  gig,  "  you  think  you're  necessary  to  me,  do  you  ? 
As  if  a  beastly  bucket-carrying  idiot  like  you  wasn't  to  be 
got  any  day.  Look  out  for  a  new  master,  then,  who'll  pay 
you  for  not  doing  as  you're  bid." 

Dawes's  blood  was  now  fairly  up.  "I'll  look  out  for  a 
master  as  has  got  a  better  charicter  nor  a  lyin',  bletherin' 
drunkard,  an'  I  shouldn't  hev  to  go  fur." 

Dempster,  furious,  snatched  the  whip  from  the  socket,  and 
gave  Dawes  a  cut  which  he  meant  to  fall  across  his  shoulders, 
saying,  "  Take  that,  sir,  and  go  to  hell  with  you !" 

Dawes  was  in  the  act  of  turning  with  the  reins  in  his  hand 
when  the  lash  fell,  and  the  cut  went  across  his  face.  With 
white  lips,  he  said, "  I'll  have  the  law  on  yer  for  that,  lawyer 
us  y'are,"  and  threw  the  reins  on  the  horse's  back. 

Dempster  leaned  forward,  seized  the  reins,  and  drove  off. 

"  Why,  there's  your  friend  Dempster  driving  out  without 
his  man  again,"  said  Mr.  Luke  Byles,  who  was  chatting  with 
Mr.  Budd  in  the  Bridge  Way.  "What  a  fool  he  is  to  drive 
that  two-wheeled  thing !  he'll  get  pitched  on  his  head  one 
of  these  days." 

"  Not  he,"  said  Mr.  Budd,  nodding  to  Dempster  as  he  pass- 
ed ;  "  he's  got  nine  lives,  Dempster  has." 


CHAPTER 

IT  was  dusk,  and  the  candles  were  lighted  before  Mr. 
Tryan  knocked  at  Mrs.  Pettifer's  door.  Her  messenger  had 
brought  back  word  that  he  was  not  at  home,  and  all  after- 


286  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

noon  Janet  had  been  agitated  by  the  fear  that  he  would  not 
come ;  but  as  soon  as  that  anxiety  was  removed  by  the 
knock  at  the  door,  she  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  doubt  and  timid- 
ity :  she  trembled  and  turned  cold. 

Mrs.  Pettifer  went  to  open  the  door,  and  told  Mr.  Tryan, 
in  as  few  words  as  possible,  what  had  happened  in  the  night. 
As  he  laid  down  his  hat  and  prepared  to  enter  the  parlor, 
she  said,  "  I  won't  go  in  with  you,  for  I  think  perhaps  she 
would  rather  see  you  go  in  alone." 

Janet,  wrapped  up  in  a  large  white  shawl  which  threw 
her  dark  face  into  startling  relief,  was  seated  with  her  eyes 
turned  anxiously  towards  the  door  when  Mr.  Tryan  entered. 
He  had  not  seen  her  since  their  interview  at  Sally  Martin's, 
long  months  ago ;  and  he  felt  a  strong  movement  of  compas- 
sion at  the  sight  of  the  pain-stricken  face  which  seemed  to 
bear  written  on  it  the  signs  of  all  Janet's  intervening  misery. 
Her  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  as  her  eyes  met  his  once  more. 
No!  she  had  not  deceived  herself :  there  was  all  the  sincerity, 
all  the  sadness,  all  the  deep  pity  in  them  her  memory  had  told 
her  of;  more  than  it  had  told  her,  for  in  proportion  as  his 
face  had  become  thinner  and  more  worn,  his  eyes  appeared 
to  have  gathered  intensity. 

He  came  forward,  and,  putting  out  his  hand,  said,  "I  am 
so  glad  you  sent  for  me — I  am  so  thankful  you  thought  I 
could  be  any  comfort  to  you."  Janet  took  his  hand  in  si- 
lence. She  was  unable  to  utter  any  words  of  mere  polite- 
ness, or  even  of  gratitude  ;  her  heart  was  too  full  of  other 
words  that  had  welled  up  the  moment  she  met  his  pitying 
glance,  and  felt  her  doubts  fall  away. 

They  sat  down  opposite  each  other,  and  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  while  slow,  difficult  tears  gathered  in  her  aching  eyes, 

"I  want  to  tell  you  how  unhappy  I  am — how  weak  and 
wicked.  I  feel  no  strength  to  live  or  die.  I  thought  you 
could  tell  me  something  that  would  help  me."  She  paused. 

"  Perhaps  I  can,"  Mr.  Tryan  said,  "  for  in  speaking  to  me 
you  are  speaking  to  a  fellow-sinner  who  has  needed  just  the 
comfort  and  help  you  are  needing." 

"And  you  did  find  it?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  trust  you  will  find  it." 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  to  be  good  and  to  do  right,"  Janet 
burst  forth;  "but  indeed,  indeed,  my  lot  has  been  a  very 
hard  one.  I  loved  my  husband  very  dearly  when  we  were 
mai*ried,  and  I  meant  to  make  him  happy — I  wanted  nothing 
else.  But  he  began  to  be  angry  with  me  for  little  things 
and  ....  I  don't  want  to  accuse  him  ....  but  he  drank 
and  got  more  and  more  unkind  to  me,  and  then  very  cruel, 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  287 

and  he  beat  me.  And  that  cut  me  to  the  heart.  It  made 
me  almost  mad  sometimes  to  think  all  our  love  had  come  to 
that ....  I  couldn't  bear  up  against  it.  I  had  never  been 
used  to  drink  any  thing  but  water.  I  hated  wine  and  spirits 
because  Robert  drank  them  so ;  but  one  day  when  I  was 
very  wretched,  and  the  wine  was  standing  on  the  table,  I 
suddenly  ....  I  can  hardly  remember  how  I  came  to  do 
it ....  I  poured  some  wine  into  a  large  glass  and  drank  it. 
It  blunted  my  feelings,  and  made  me  more  indifferent.  Af- 
ter that,  the  temptation  was  always  coming,  and  it  got  strong- 
er and  stronger.  I  was  ashamed,  and  I  hated  what  I  did ; 
but  almost  while  the  thought  was  passing  through  my  mind 
that  I  would  never  do  it  again,  I  did  it.  It  seemed  as  if 
there  was  a  demon  in  me  always  making  me  rush  to  do  what 
I  longed  not  to  do.  And  I  thought  all  the  more  that  God 
was  cruel ;  for  if  he  had  not  sent  me  that  dreadful  trial,  so 
much  worse  than  other  women  have  to  bear,  I  should  not 
have  done  wrong  in  that  way.  I  suppose  it  is  wicked  to 
think  so.  ,  .  .  I  feel  as  if  there  must  be  goodness  and  right 
above  us,  but  I  can't  see  it,  I  can't  trust  in  it.  And  I  have 
gone  on  in  that  way  for  years  and  years.  At  one  time  it 
used  to  be  better  now  and  then,  but  every  thing  has  got 
worse  lately :  I  felt  sure  it  must  soon  end  somehow.  And 
last  night  he  turned  me  out  of  doors  ....  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  I  will  never  go  back  to  that  life  again  if  I  can 
help  jt ;  and  yet  every  thing  else  seems  so  miserable.  I  feel 
sure  that  demon  will  be  always  urging  me  to  satisfy  the 
craving  that  comes  upon  me,  and  the  days  will  go  on  as  they 
have  done  through  all  those  miserable  years.  I  shall  always 
be  doing  wrong,  and  hating  myself  after — sinking  lower  and 
lower,  and  knowing  that  I  am  sinking.  Oh,  can  you  tell  me 
any  way  of  getting  strength  ?  Have  you  ever  known  any 
one  like  me  that  got  peace  of  mind  and  power  to  do  right  ? 
Can  you  give  me  any  comfort — any  hope?" 

While  Janet  was  speaking,  she  had  forgotten  every  thing 
but  her  misery  and  her  yearning  for  comfort.  Her  voice  had 
risen  from  the  low  tone  of  timid  distress  to  an  intense  pitch 
of  imploring  anguish.  She  clasped  her  hands  tightly,  and 
looked  at  Mr.  Tryan  with  eager,  questioning  eyes,  with  part- 
ed, trembling  lips,  with  the  deep  horizontal  lines  of  overmas- 
tering pain  on  her  brow.  In  this  artificial  life  of  ours,  it  is 
not  often  we  see  a  human  face  with  all  a  heart's  agony  in  it, 
uncontrolled  by  self-consciousness;  when  we  do  see  it,  it 
startles  us  as  if  we  had  suddenly  waked  into  the  real  world 
of  which  this  every-day  one  is  but  a  puppet-show  copy.  For 
Rome  moments  Mr.  Tryan  was  too  deeply  moved  to  speak. 


288  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Yes,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,"  he  said  at  last,  "  there  is  com- 
fort, there  is  hope  for  you.  Believe  me  there  is,  for  I  speak 
from  my  own  deep  and  hard  experience."  He  paused,  as  if 
he  had  not  made  up  his  mind  to  utter  the  words  that  were 
urging  themselves  to  his  lips.  Presently  he  continued,  "  Ten 
years  ago,  I  felt  as  wretched  as  you  do.  I  think  my  wretch- 
edness was  even  worse  than  yours,  for  I  had  a  heavier  sin 
on  my  conscience.  I  had  suffered  no  wrong  from  others  as 
you  have,  and  I  had  injured  another  irreparably  in  body  and 
soul.  The  image  of  the  wrong  I  had  done  pursued  me  every- 
where, and  I  seemed  on  the  brink  of  madness.  I  hated  my 
life,  for  I  thought,  just  as  you  do,  that  I  should  go  on  falling 
\jnto  temptation  and  doing  more  harm  in  the  Avorld ;  and  I 
dreaded  death,  for  with  that  sense  of  guilt  on  my  soul,  I  felt 
^  that  whatever  state  I  entered  on  must  be  one  of  misery.  But 
a  dear  friend  to  whom  I  opened  my  mind  showed  me  it  was 
just  such  as  I — the  helpless  who  feel  themselves  helpless — 
-  that  God  specially  invites  to  come  to  Him,  and  offers  all  the 
riches  of  His  salvation ;  not  forgiveness  only ;  forgiveness 
would  be  worth  little  if  it  left  us  under  the  powers  of  our 
evil  passions ;  but  strength — that  strength  which  enables  us 
to  conquer  sin." 

"  But,"  said  Janet,  "  I  can  feel  no  trust  in  God.  He  seems 
always  to  have  left  me  to  myself.  I  have  sometimes  prayed 
to  Him  to  help  me,  and  yet  every  thing  has  been  just  the 
same  as  before.  If  you  felt  like  me,  how  did  you  come  to  have 
hope  and  trust  ?" 

"  Do  not  believe  that  God  has  left  you  to  yourself.  How 
can  you  tell  but  that  the  hardest  trials  you  have  known  have 
been  only  the  road  by  which  He  was  leading  you  to  that  com- 
plete sense  of  your  own  sin  and  helplessness,  without  which 
you  would  never  have  renounced  all  other  hopes,  and  trusted 
in  His  love  alone  ?  I  know,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  I  know  it 
is  hard  to  bear.  I  would  not  speak  lightly  of  your  sorrows. 
I  feel  that  the  mystery  of  our  life  is  great,  and  at  one  time  it 
seemed  as  dark  to  me  as  it  does  to  you."  Mr.  Tryan  hesi- 
tated again.  He  saw  that  the  first  thing  Janet  needed  was 
to  be  assured  of  sympathy.  She  must  be  made  to  feel  that 
her  anguish  was  not  strange  to  him ;  that  he  entered  into  the 
only  half-expressed  secrets  of  her  spiritual  weakness,  before 
any  other  message  of  consolation  could  find  its  way  to  her 
heart.  The  tale  of  the  Divine  Pity  was  never  yet  believed 
from  lips  that  were  not  felt  to  be  moved  by  human  pity. 
And  Janet's  anguish  was  not  strange  to  Mr.  Tryan.  He  had 
never  been  in  the  presence  of  a  sorrow  and  a  self-despair  that 
had  sent  so  strong  a  thrill  through  all  the  recesses  of  his  sad' 


JANETS   REPENTANCE.  289 

de»t  experience ;  and  it  is  because  sympathy  is  but  a  living 
again  through  our  own  past  in  a  new  form,  that  confession 
often  prompts  a  response  of  confession.  Mr.  Tryan  felt  this 
prompting,  and  his  judgment,  too,  told  him  that  in  obeying  it 
he  would  be  taking  the  best  means  of  administering  comfort 
to  Janet.  Yet  he  hesitated  ;  as  we  tremble  to  let  in  the  day- 
light on  a  chamber  of  relics  which  we  have  never  visited  ex- 
cept in  curtained  silence.  But  the  first  impulse  triumphed, 
and  he  went  on.  "  I  had  lived  all  my  life  at  a  distance  from 
God.  My  youth  was  spent  in  thoughtless  self-indulgence, 
and  all  my  hopes  were  of  a  vain,  worldly  kind.  I  had  no 
thought  of  entering  the  Church  ;  I  looked  forward  to  a  politi- 
cal career,  for  my  father  was  private  secretary  to  a  man  high 
in  the  Whig  Ministry,  and  had  been  promised  strong  interest 
in  my  behalf.  At  college  I  lived  in  intimacy  with  the  gay- 
est men,  even  adopting  follies  and  vices  for  which  I  had  no 
taste,  out  of  mere  pliancy  and  the  love  of  standing  well  with 
my  companions.  You  see,  I  was  more  guilty  even  then  than 
you  have  been,  for  I  threw  away  all  the  rich  blessings  of  un- 
troubled youth  and  health ;  I  had  no  excuse  in  my  outward 
lot.  But  while  I  was  at  college  that  event  in  my  life  occur- 
red, which  in  the  end  brought  on  the  state  of  mind  I  have 
mentioned  to  you — the  state  of  self-reproach  and  despair, 
which  enables  me  to  understand  to  the  full  what  you  are 
Buffering  ;  and  I  tell  you  the  facts,  because  I  want  you  to  be 
assured  that  I  am  not  uttering  mere  vague  words  when  I  say 
that  I  have  been  raised  from  as  low  a  depth  of  sin  and  sorrow 
as  that  in  which  you  feel  yourself  to  be.  At  college  I  had 
an  attachment  to  a  lovely  girl  of  seventeen ;  she  was  very 
much  below  my  own  station  in  life,  and  I  never  contemplated 
marrying  her;  but  I  induced  her  to  leave  her  father's  house. 
I  did  not  mean  to  forsake  her  when  I  left  college,  and  I  quiet- 
ed all  scruples  of  conscience  by  promising  myself  that  I  would 
always  take  care  of  poor  Lucy.  But  on  my  return  from  a  va- 
cation spent  in  travelling,  I  found  that  Lucy  was  gone — gone 
away  with  a  gentleman,  her  neighbors  said.  I  was  a  good 
deal  distressed,  but  I  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  no  harm 
would  come  to  her.  Soon  afterwards  I  had  an  illness  which 
left  my  health  delicate,  and  made  all  dissipation  distasteful 
to  me.  Life  seemed  very  wearisome  and  empty,  and  I  looked 
with  envy  on  every  one  who  had  some  great  and  absorbing 
object — even  on  my  cousin  who  was  preparing  to  go  out  as 
a  missionary,  and  whom  I  had  been  used  to  think  a  dismal, 
tedious  person,  because  he  was  constantly  urging  religious 
subjects  upon  me.  We  were  living  in  London  then ;  it  was 
three  years  since  I  had  lost  sight  of  Lucy ;  and  one  summer 

13 


290  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

evening,  about  nine  o'clock,  as  I  was  walking  along  Gower 
Street,  I  saw  a  knot  of  people  on  the  causeway  before  me.  As 
I  came  up  to  them,  I  heard  one  woman  say, '  I  tell  you,  she  is 
dead.'  This  awakened  my  interest,  and  I  pushed  my  way 
within  the  circle.  The  body  of  a  woman,  dressed  in  fine 
clothes,  was  lying  against  a  door-step.  Her  head  was  bent 
on  one  side,  and  the  long  curls  had  fallen  over  her  cheek.  A  N 
tremor  seized  me  when  I  saw  the  hair :  it  was  light  chestnut 
— the  color  of  Lucy's.  I  knelt  down  and  turned  aside  the 
hair ;  it  was  Lucy — dead — with  paint  on  her  cheeks.  I  found 
out  afterwards  that  she  had  taken  poison — that  she  was  in 
the  power  of  a  wicked  woman — that  the  very  clothes  on  her 
back  were  not  her  own.  It  was  then  that  my  past  life  burst 
upon  me  in  all  its  hideousness.  I  wished  I  had  never  been  born. 
I  couldn't  look  into  the  future.  Lucy's  dead  painted  face 
would  follow  me  there,  as  it  did  when  I  looked  back  into  the 
past — as  it  did  when  I  sat  down  to  table  with  my  friends, 
when  I  lay  down  in  my  bed,  and  when  I  rose  up.  There  was 
only  one  thing  that  could  make  life  tolerable  to  me ;  that 
was,  to  spend  all  the  rest  of  it  in  trying  to  save  others  from 
the  ruin  I  had  brought  on  one.  But  how  was  that  possible 
for  me  ?  I  had  no  comfort,  no  strength,  no  wisdom  in  my  own 
soul ;  how  could  I  give  them  to  others  ?  My  mind  was  dark, 
rebellious,  at  war  with  itself  and  with  God." 

Mr.  Try  an  had  been  looking  away  from  Janet.  His  face 
was  towards  the  fire,  and  he  was  absorbed  in  the  images  his 
memory  was  recalling.  But  now  he  turned  his  eyes  on  her, 
and  they  met  hers,  fixed  on  him  with  the  look  of  rapt  ex- 
pectation, with  which  one  clinging  to  a  slippery  summit  of  a 
rock,  while  the  waves  are  rising  higher  and  higher,  watches 
the  boat  that  has  put  from  shore  to  his  rescue. 

"  You  see,  Mrs.  Dempster,  how  deep  my  need  was.  I  went 
on  in  this  way  for  months.  I  was  convinced  that  if  I  ever 
got  health  and  comfoi't,  it  must  be  from  religion.  I  went  to 
hear  celebrated  preachers,  and  I  read  religious  books.  But  I 
found  nothing  that  fitted  my  own  need.  The  faith  which  puts 
the  sinner  in  possession  of  salvation  seemed,  as  I  understood 
it,  to  be  quite  out  of  my  reach.  I  had  no  faith ;  I  only  felt 
utterly  wretched,  under  the  power  of  habits  and  dispositions 
which  had  wrought  hideous  evil.  At  last,  as  I  told  you,  I 
found  a  friend  to  whom  I  opened  all  my  feelings — to  whom  I 
confessed  every  thing.  He  was  a  man  who  had  gone  through 
very  deep  experience,  and  could  understand  the  different 
wants  of  different  minds.  He  made  it  clear  to  me  that  the 
only  preparation  for  coming  to  Christ  and  partaking  of  his 
salvation,  was  that  very  sense  of  guilt  and  helplessness  which 


JANET'S  BEPENTANCE.  291 

•was  weighing  me  down.  He  said,  you  are  weary  and  heavy- 
laden  ;  well,  it  is  you  Christ  invites  to  come  to  him  and  find 
rest.  He  asks  you  to  cling  to  him,  to  lean  on  him ;  he  does 
not  command  you  to  walk  alone  without  stumbling.  He  does 
not  tell  you,  as  your  fellow-men  do,  that  you  must  first  merit 
his  love ;  he  neither  condemns  nor  reproaches  you  for  the  past, 
he  only  bids  you  to  come  to  him  that  you  may  have  life  ;  he 
bids  you  stretch  out  your  hands,  and  take  of  the  fullness  of 
his  love.  You  have  only  to  rest  on  him  as  a  child  rests  on 
its  mother's  arms,  and  you  will  be  upborne  by  his  divine 
strength.  That  is  what  is  meant  by  faith.  Your  evil  habits, 
you  feel,  are  too  strong  for  you  ;  you  are  unable  to  wrestle 
with  them  ;  you  know  beforehand  you  shall  fall.  But  when 
once  we  feel  our  helplessness  in  that  way,  and  go  to  the  Sav- 
iour, desiring  to  be  freed-  from  the  power  as  well  as  the  pun- 
ishment of  sin,  we  are  no  longer  left  to  our  own  strength. 
As  long  as  we  live  in  rebellion  against  God,  desiring  to  have 
our  own  will,  seeking  happiness  in  the  things  of  this  world,  it 
is  as  if  we  shut  ourselves  up  in  a  crowded,  stifling  room,  where 
we  breathe  only  poisoned  air ;  but  we  have  only  to  walk  out 
under  the  infinite  heavens,  and  we  breathe  the  pure  free  air 
that  gives  us  health,  and  strength,  and  gladness.  It  is  just 
so  with  God's  spirit :  as  soon  as  we  submit  ourselves  to  his 
will,  as  soon  as  we  desire  to  be  united  to  him,  and  made  pure 
and  holy,  it  is  as  if  the  walls  had  fallen  down  that  shut  us  out 
from  God,  and  we  are  fed  with  his  spirit,  which  gives  us  new 
strength." 

"  that  is  what  I  want,"  said  Janet ;  "  I  have  left  off  mind- 
ing about  pleasure.  I  think  I  could  be  contented  in  the  midst 
of  hardship,  if  I  felt  that  God  cared  for  me,  and  would  give 
me  (strength  to  lead  a  pure  life.  But  tell  me,  did  you  soon 
find  peace  and  strength  ?" 

"  Not  perfect  peace  for  a  long  while,  but  hope  and  trust, 
which  is  strength.  No  sense  of  pardon  for  myself  could  do 
away  with  the  pain  I  had  in  thinking  what  I  had  helped  to 
bring  on  another.  My  friend  used  to  urge  upon  me  that  my 
sin  against  God  was  greater  than  my  sin  against  her ;  but — 
it  may  be  from  want  of  deeper  spiritual  feeling — that  has  re- 
mained to  this  hour  the  sin  which  causes  me  the  bitterest 
,pang.  I  could  never  rescue  Lucy ;  but  by  God's  blessing  I 
might  rescue  other  weak  and  falling  souls  ;  and  that  was  why 
I  entered  the  Church.  I  asked  for  nothing  through  the  rest 
of  my  life  but  that  I  might  be  devoted  to  God's  work,  with- 
out swerving  in  search  of  pleasure  either  to  the  right  hand  or 
to  the  left.  It  has  been  often  a  hard  struggle — but  God  has 
btjen  with  me — and  perhaps  it  may  not  last  much  longer." 


292  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Mr.  Tryan  paused.  For  a  moment  he  had  forgotten  Janot, 
and  for  a  moment  she  had  forgotten  her  own  sorrows.  When 
she  recurred  to  herself,  it  was  with  a  new  feeling.- 

"  Ah,  what  a  difference  between  our  lives  !  y ou  h aye  Ji£eaa» 
choosing  pain,  and  working^andjtenying  youi'nolf;  and  I  have 
been  tlnnkinjp-enty  6'f  mvselft  I  was  only  angry  and  dis- 
contentecTnecause  I  had  pain  to  bear.  You  never  had  that 
wicked  feeling  that  I  have  had  so  often,  did  you  ?  that  God 
was  cruel  to  send  me  trials  and  temptations  worse  than  oth- 
ers have." 

"  Yes,  I  had  ;  I  had  very  blasphemous  thoughts,  and  I  know 
that  spirit  of  rebellion  must  have  made  the  worst  part  of  your 
lot.  You  did  not  feel  how  impossible  it  is  for  us  to  judge 
rightly  of  God's  dealings,  and  you  opposed  yourself  to  his  will. 
But  what  do  we  know  ?  We  can  nojt  foretell  the  working  of 
the  smallest  event  in  our  own  lot ;  how  can  we  presume  to 
judge  of  things  that  are  so  much  too  high  for  us?  There  is 
nothing  that  becomes  us  but  entire  submission,  perfect  resig- 
nation. As  long  as  we  set  up  our  own  will  and  our  own  wis- 
dom against  God's,  we  make  that  wall  between  us  and  his  love 
which  I  have  spoken  of  just  now.  But  as  soon  as  we  lay  our- 
selves entirely  at  his  feet,  we  have  enough  light  given  us  to 
guide  our  own  steps ;  as  the  foot-soldier  who  hears  nothing 
of  the  councils  that  determine  the  course  of  the  great  battle 
he  is  in,  hears  plainly  enough  the  word  of  command  which  he 
must  himself  obey.  I  know,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  I  know  it 
is  hard — the  hardest  thing  of  all,  perhaps — to  flesh  and  blood. 
But  carry  that  difficulty  to  the  Saviour  along  with  all  your 
other  sins  and  weaknesses,  and  ask  him  to  pour  into  you  a 
Spirit  of  submission.  He  enters  into  your  struggles ;  he  has 
drunk  the  cup  of  our  suffering  to  the  dregs ;  he  knows  the 
hard  wrestling  it  costs  us  to  say, '  Not  my  will,  but  Thine  be 
done.' " 

"Pray  with  me,"  said  Janet — "  pray  now  that  I  may  have 
light  and  strength." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BEFORE  leaving  Janet,  Mr.  Tryan  urged  her  strongly  to 
send  for  her  mother. 

"  Do  not  Hround  her,"  he  said,  "  by  shutting  her  out  any 
longer  from  your  troubles.  It  is  right  that  you  should  be 
with  her." 

"  Yes,  I  will  send  for  her,"  said  Janet.   "  But  I  would  rathe* 


JANET'S  REPE.VTAXCR.  293 

not  go  to  my  mother's  yet,  because  my  husband  is  sure  to 
think  I  am  there,  and  he  might  come  and  fetch  me.  I  can't 
go  back  to  him  ....  at  least,  not  yet.  Ought  I  to  go  back 
to  him?" 

"  No,  certainly  not,  at  present.  Something  should  be 
done  to  secure  you  from  violence.  Your  mother,  I  think, 
should  consult  some  confidential  friend,  some  man  of  charac- 
ter and  experience,  who  might  mediate  between  you  and 
your  husband." 

"Yes,  I  will  send  for  my  mother  directly.  But  I  will 
stay  here,  with  Mrs.  Pettifer,  till  something  has  been  done. 
I  want  no  one  to  know  where  I  am,  except  you.  You  will 
come  again,  will  you  not?  you  will  not  leave  me  to  myself?" 

"You  will  not  be  left  to  yourself.  God  is  with  you.  If 
I  have  been  able  to  give  you  any  comfort,  it  is  because  his 
power  and  love  have  been  present  with  us.  But  I  am  very 
thankful  that  he  has  chosen  to  work  through  me.  I  shall  see 
you  again  to-morrow — not  before  evening,  for  it  will  be  Sun- 
day, you  know ;  but  after  the  evening  lecture  I  shall  be 
at  liberty.  You  will  be  in  my  prayers  till  then.  In  the 
mean  time,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  open  your  heart  as  much  as 
you  can  to  your  mother  and  Mrs.  Pettifer.  Cast  away  from 
you  the  pride  that  makes  us  shrink  from  acknowledging  our 
weakness  to  our  friends.  Ask  them  to  help  you  in  guarding 
yourself  from  the  least  approach  of  the  sin  you  most  dread. 
Deprive  yourself  as  far  as  possible  of  the  very  means  and  op- 
portunitv  of  committing  it.  Every  effort  of  that  kind  made 
in  humility  and  dependence  is  a  prayer.  Promise  me  you 
will  do  this." 

"Yes,  I  promise  you.     I  know  I  have  always  been  too 

froud  ;  I  could  never  bear  to  speak  to  any  one  about  myself! 
have  been  proud  towards  my  mother,  even ;  it  has  always 
made  me  angry  when  she  has  seemed  to  take  notice  of  my 
faults." 

"  Ah,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  you  will  never  say  again  that 
life  is  blank,  and  that  there  is  nothing  to  live  for,  will  you? 
See  what  work  there  is  to  be  done  in  life,  both  in  our  own 
souls  and  for  others.  Surely  it  matters  little  whether  we 
have  more  or  less  of  this  world's  comfort  in  these  short  years, 
when  God  is  training  us  for  the  eternal  enjoyment  of  his 
love.  Keep  that  great  end  of  life  before  you,  and  your  troub- 
les here  will  seem  only  the  small  hardships  of  a  journey. 
Now  I  must  go." 

Mr.  Tryan  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  Janet  took  it  and 
said, "  God  has  been  very  good  to  me  in  sending  you  to  me. 
I  will  trust  in  him.  I  will  try  to  do  every  thing  you  tell  me." 


294  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Blessed  influence  of  one  true  loving  human  sou!  on  an- 
other !  Not  calculable  by  algebra,  not  deducible  by  logic, 
but  mysterious,  effectual,  mighty  as  the  hidden  process  by 
which  the  tiny  seed  is  quickened,  and  bursts  forth  into  tall 
stem  and  broad  leaf,  and  glowing  tasselled  flower.  Ideas 
are  often  poor  ghosts;  our  sun-tilled  eyes  can  not  discern 
them ;  they  pass  athwart  us  in  thin  vapor,  and  can  not  make 
themselves  felt.  But  sometimes  they  are  made  flesh ;  they 
breathe  upon  us  with  warm  breath,  they  touch  us  with  soil 
responsive  hands,  they  look  at  us  with  sad,  sincere  eyes,  and 
speak  to  us  in  appealing  tones ;  they  are  clothed  in  a  living 
human  soul,  with  all  its  conflicts,  its  faith,  and  its  love.  Then 
their  presence  is.  a  power,  then  they  shake  us  like  a  passion, 
and  we  are  drawn  after  them  with  gentle  compulsion,  as 
flame  is  drawn  to  flame. 

Janet's  dark  grand  face,  still  fatigued,  had  become  quite 
calm,  and  looked  up,  as  she  sat,  with  a  humble,  childlike  ex- 
pression at  the  thin  blond  face  and  slightly  sunken  gray  eyes 
which  now  shone  with  hectic  brightness.  She  might  have 
been  taken  for  an  image  of  passionate  strength  beaten  and 
worn  with  conflict ;  and  he  for  an  image  of  the  self-renounc- 
ing faith  which  has  soothed  that  conflict  into  rest.  As  he 
looked  at  the  sweet  submissive  face,  he  remembered  its  look 
of  despairing  anguish,  and  his  heart  was  very  full  as  he  turn- 
ed away  from  her.  "  Let  me  only  live  to  see  this  work  con- 
firmed, and  then  .  .  .  ." 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  Mr.  Tryan  left,  but  Janet 
was  bent  on  sending  for  her  mother ;  so  Mrs.  Pettifer,  as  the 
readiest  plan,  put  on  her  bonnet  and  went  herself  to  fetch 
Mrs.  Raynor.  The  mother  had  been  too  long  used  to  expect 
that  every  fresh  week  would  be  more  painful  than  the  last, 
for  Mrs.  fettifer's  news  to  come  upon  her  with  the  shock  of 
a  surprise.  Quietly,  without  any  show  of  distress,  she  made 
up  a  bundle  of  clothes,  and,  telling  her  little  maid  that  she 
should  not  return  home  that  night,  accompanied  Mrs.  Petti- 
fer back  in  silence. 

When  they  entered  the  parlor,  Janet,  wearied  out,  had 
sunk  to  sleep  in  the  large  chair,  which  stood  with  its  back  to 
the  door.  The  noise  of  the  opening  door  disturbed  her,  and 
she  was  looking  round  wonderingly,  when  Mrs.  Raynor  came 
up  to  her  chair,  and  said,  "  It's  your  mother,  Janet." 

"  Mother?  dear  mother !"  Janet  cried,  clasping  her  closely. 
"  I  have  not  been  a  good  tender  child  to  you,  but  I  will  be — 
I  will  not  grieve  you  any  more." 

The  calmness  which  had  withstood  a  new  sorrow  was 
overcome  by  a  new  joy,  and  the  mother  burst  into  tears. 


J-ANET'S   BEPENTANCE.  295 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ON  Sunday  morning  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  Janet,  look- 
ing out  of  the  bedroom  window,  saw,  above  the  house-tops, 
a  shining  mass  of  white  cloud  rolling  under  the  far-away  blue 
sky.  It  was  going  to  be  a  lovely  April  day.  The  fresh  sky, 
left  clear  and  calm  after  the  long  vexation  of  wind  and  rain, 
mingled  its  mild  influence  with  Janet's  new  thoughts  and 
prospects.  She  felt  a  buoyant  courage  that  surprised  herself, 
after  the  cold,  crushing  weight  of  despondency  which  had  op- 
pressed her  the  day  before:  she  could  think  even  of  her  hus- 
band's rage  without  the  old  overpowering  dread.  For  a  de- 
licious hope — the  hope  of  purification  and  inward  peace — had 
entered  into  Janet's  soul,  and  made  it  spring-time  there  as 
well  as  in  the  outer  world. 

While  her  mother  was  brushing  and  coiling  up  her  thick 
black  hair — a  favorite  task,  because  it  seemed  to  renew  the 
days  of  her  daughter's  girlhood — Janet  told  how  she  came 
to  send  for  Mr.  Tryan,  how  she  had  remembered  their  meet- 
ing at  Sally  Martin's  in  the  autumn,  and  had  felt  an  irresisti- 
ble desire  to  see  him,  and  tell  him  her  sins  and  her  troubles. 

"I  see  God's  goodness  now,  mother,  in  ordering  it  so  that 
we  should  meet  in  that  way,  to  overcome  my  prejudice  against 
him,  and  make  me  feel  that  he  was  good,  and  then  bringing 
it  back  to  my  mind  in  the  depth  of  my  trouble.  You  know 
what  foolish  things  I  used  to  say  about  him,  knowing  nothing 
of  him  all  the  while.  And  yet  he  was  the  man  who  was  to  give 
me  comfort  and  help  when  every  thing  else  failed  me.  It  is 
wonderful  how  I  feel  able  to  speak  to  him  as  I  never  have 
done  to  any  one  before ;  and  how  every  word  he  says  to  me 
enters  my  heart  and  has  a  new  meaning  for  me.  I  think  it 
must  be  because  he  has  felt  life  more  deeply  than  others,  and 
has  a  deeper  faith.  I  believe  every  thing  he  says  at  once.  His 
words  come  to  me  like  rain  on  the  parched  ground.  It  has 
always  seemed  to  me  before  as  if  I  could  see  behind  people's 
words,  as  one  sees  behind  a  screen  ;  but  in  Mr.  Tryan  it  is  his 
very  soul  that  speaks." 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,  I  love  and  bless  him  for  your  sake, 
if  he  has  given  you  any  comfort.  I  never  believed  the  harm 
people  said  of  him,  though  I  had  no  desire  to  go  and  hear 
him,  for  I  am  contented  with  old-fashioned  ways.  I  find 
more  good  teaching  than  I  can  practise  in  reading  my 


296  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Bible  at  home,  and  hearing  Mr.  Crewe  at  church.  But  your 
wants  are  different,  my  dear,  and  we  are  not  all  led  by  the 
same  road.  That  was  certainly  good  advice  of  Mr.  Try- 
an's  you  told  me  of  last  night — that  we  should  consult  some 
one  that  may  interfere  for  you  with  your  husband  ;  and  I 
have  been  turning  it  over  in  my  mind  while  I've  been  lying 
awake  in  the  night.  I  think  nobody  will  do  so  well  as  Mr. 
Benjamin  Landor,  for  we  must  have  a  man  that  knows  the 
law,  and  that  Robert  is  rather  afraid  of.  And  perhaps  he 
could  bring  about  an  agreement  for  you  to  live  apart.  Your 
husband's  bound  to  maintain  you,  you  know ;  and,  if  you  liked, 
we  could  move  away  from  Milby  and  live  somewhere  else." 

"Oh,  mother,  we  must  do  nothing  yet ;  I  must  think  about 
it  a  little  longer.  I  have  a  different  feeling  this  morning  from 
what  I  had  yesterday.  Something  seems  to  tell  me  that  I 
must  go  back  to  Robert  some  time — after  a  little  while.  I 
loved  him  once  better  than  all  the  world,  and  I  have  never 
had  any  children  to  love.  There  were  things  in  me  that  were 
wrong,  and  I  should  like  to  make  up  for  them  if  I  can." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  won't  persuade  you.  Think  of  it  a  little 
longer.  But  something  must  be  done  soon." 

"How  I  wish  I  had  my  bonnet  and  shawl  and  black  gown 
here !"  said  Janet,  after  a  few  minutes'  silence.  "  I  should 
like  to  go  to  Paddiford  church  and  hear  Mr.  Tryan.  There 
would  be  no  fear  of  ray  meeting  Robert,  for  he  never  goes  out 
on  a  Sunday  morning." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  would  not  do  for  me  to  go  to  the  house  and 
fetch  your  clothes,"  said  Mrs.  Raynor. 

"Oh,  no, no  !  I  must  stay  quietly  here  while  you  two  go 
to  church.  I  will  be  Mrs.  Pettifer's  maid,  and  get  the  dinner 
ready  for  her  by  the  time  she  comes  back.  Dear  good  wom- 
an !  She  was  so  tender  to  me  when  she  took  me  in,  in  the 
night,  mother,  and  all  the  next  day,  when  I  couldn't  speak  a 
word  to  her  to  thank  her." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  servants  at  Dempster's  felt  some  surprise  when  the 
morning,  noon,  and  evening  of  Saturday  had  passed,  and  still 
their  mistress  did  not  reappear. 

"  It's  very  odd,"  said  Kitty,  the  housemaid,  as  she  trimmed 
her  next  week's  cap,  while  Betty,  the  middle-aged  cook,  look- 
ed on  with  folded  arms.  "Do  you  think  as  Mrs.  Raynoi  was 
ill  and  sent  for  the  missis  afore  we  was  up  ?" 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  297 

"  Oh,"  said  Betty,"  if  it  had  been  that,  she'd  ha'  been  back 
'ards  an'  for'ards  three  or  four  times  afore  now ;  leastways, 
she'd  ha'  sent  little  Ann  to  let  us  know." 

"  There's  summat  up  more  nor  usal  between  her  an'  the 
master,  that  you  may  depend  on,"  said  Kitty.  "  I  know  those 
clothes  as  was  lying  i'  the  drawing-room  yesterday,  when  the 
company  was  come,  meant  summat.  I  shojildn!t- wonder  if 
that  was  what  they've  had  a  fresh  row  about.  She's  p'raps 
gone  awav,  airs  made  up  her  mind  not  to  come  back  again." 

"  AiTT  the  right  on't,  too,"  said  Betty.  "  I'd  ha'  overrun 
him  long  afore  now,  if  it  had  been  me.  I  wouldn't  stan'  bein* 
mauled  as  she  is  by  no  husband,  not  if  he  was  the  biggest 
lord  i'  the  laud.  It's  poor  work  beiu'  a  wife  at  that  price: 
I'd  sooner  be  a  cook  wi'out  perkises,  an'  hev  roast,  an'  boil, 
an'  fry,  an'  bake,  all  to  mind  at  once.  She  may  well  do  as 
she  does.  I  know  I'm  glad  enough  of  a  drop  o'  summat  my- 
self when  I'm  plagued.  I  feel  very  low,  like,  to-night ;  I 
think  I  shall  put  my  beer  i'  the  saucepan  an'  warm  it." 

"  What  a  one  you  arc  for  warmin'  your  beer,  Betty  !  I 
couldn't  abide  it — nasty  bitter  stuff!" 

"  It's  fine  talkin' ;  if  you  was  a  cook  you'd  know  what  be- 
longs to  bein'  a  cook.  It's  none  so  nice  to  hev  a  sinkin'  at 
your  stomach,  I  can  tell  you.  You  wouldn't  think  so  much  or 
fine  ribbins  i'  your  cap  then." 

"  Well,  well,  Betty,  don't  be  grumpy.  Liza  Thomson,  as  is 
at  Phipps's,  said  to  me  last  Sunday, '  I  wonder  you'll  stay  at 
Dempster's,'  she  says, '  such  goins-on  as  there  is.  But  I  says, 
*  There's  things  to  put  up  wi'  in  ivery  place,  an'  you  may 
change,  an'  change,  an'  not  better  yourself  when  all's  said  an' 
done.'  Lors  !  why,  Liza  told  me  herself  as  Mrs.  Phipps  was 
as  skinny  as  skinny  i'  the  kitchen,  for  all  they  keep  so  much 
company  ;  and  as  for  follyers,  she's  as  cross  as  a  turkey-cock 
if  she  finds  'em  out.  There's  nothin'  o'  that  sort  i'  the  missis. 
How  pretty  she  come  an'  spoke  to  Job  last  Sunday  !  There 
isn't  a  good-natur'der  woman  i'  the  world,  that's  my  belief — 
an'  hansome  too.  I  al'ys  think  there's  nobody  looks  half  so 
well  as  the  missis  when  she's  got  her  'air  done  nice.  Lors  J 
I  wish  I'd  got  long  'air  like  her — my  'air's  a-comin'  off  dreaa- 
ful." 

"  There'll  be  fine  work  to-morrow,  I  expect,"  said  Betty, 
"  when  the  master  comes  home,  an'  Dawes  a-swearin'  as  he'll 
niver  do  a  stroke  o'  work  for  him  again.  It'll  be  good  fun  if 
he  sets  the  justice  on  him  for  cuttin'  him  wi'  the  whip ;  the 
master'll  p'raps  get  his  comb  cut  for  once  in  his  life  !" 

"  Why,  he  was  in  a  temper  like  a  fi-end  this  morning,"  said 
Kitty.  "I  daresay  it  was  along  o'  what  had  happened  wi' 

13* 


298  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

the  missis.  We  shall  hev  a  pretty  house  wi'  him  if  she  doesn't 
come  back — he'll  want  to  be  leatherin'  «s,  I  shouldn't  wonder. 
He  must  hev  somethin'  t'  ill-use  when  lie's  in  a  passion." 

"  I'd  tek  care  he  didn't  leather  me — no,  not  if  he  was  my 
husban'  ten  times  o'er;  I'd  pour  hot  drippin'  on  him  sooner. 
But  the  missis  hasn't  a  sperrit  like  me.  He'll  mek  her  come 
back, you'll  see;  he'll  come  round  her  somehow.  There's  no 
likelihood  of  her  coining  back  to-night,  though ;  so  I  should 
think  we  might  fasten  the  doors  and  go  to  bed  when  we  like." 

On  Sunday  morning,  however,  Kitty's  mind  became  dis- 
turbed by  more  definite  and  alarming  conjectures  about  her 
mistress.  While  Betty,  encouraged  by  the  prospect  of  un- 
wonted leisure,  was  sitting  down  to  continue  a  letter  which 
had  long  lain  unfinished  between  the  leaves  of  her  Bible,  Kit- 
ty came  running  into  the  kitchen  and  said, 

"  Lor !  Betty,  I'm  all  of  a  tremble  ;  you  might  knock  me 
down  wi'  a  feather.  I've  just  looked  into  the  missis's  ward- 
robe, an'  there's  both  her  bonnets.  She  must  ha'  gone  wi'out 
her  bonnet.  An'  then  I  remember  as  her  night-clothes  wasn't 
on  the  bed  yisterday  mornin' ;  I  thought  she'd  put  'em  away 
to  be  washed  ;  but  she  hcdn't,  for  I've  been  lookin'.  It's  my 
belief  he's  murdered  her,  and  shut  her  up  i'  that  closet  as  he 
keeps  locked  al'ys.  He's  capible  on't." 

u  Lors-ha-massy,  why  you'd  better  run  to  Mrs.  Raynor's 
an'  see  if  she's  there,  arter  all.  It  was  p'raps  all  a  lie." 

Mrs.  Ilaynor  had  returned  home  to  give  directions  to  her 
little  majden,  when  Kitty,  with  the  elaborate  manifestation 
of  alarm  which  servants  delight  in,  rushed  in  without  knock- 
ing, and,  holding  her  hands  on  her  heart  as  if  the  consequences 
to  that  organ  were  likely  to  be  very  serious,  said, 

"  If  you  please  'm,  is  the  missis  here?" 

"  No,  Kitty ;  why  are  you  come  to  ask  ?" 

"  Because  'm,  she's  niver  been  at  home  since  yesterday 
mornin',  since  afore  we  was  up ;  an'  we  thought  somethin' 
must  ha'  happened  to  her." 

"  No,  don't  be  frightened,  Kitty.  Your  mistress  is  quite 
safe;  I  know  where  she  is.  Is  your  master  at  home?" 

"  No  'm ;  he  went  out  yesterday  mornin',  an'  said  he 
shouldn't  be  back  afore  to-night." 

"  Well,  Kitty,  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  your  mis- 
tress. You  needn't  say  any  thing  to  any  one  about  her  be- 
ing away  from  home.  I  shall  call  presently  and  fetch  her 
gown  and  bonnet.  She  wants  them  to  put  on." 

Kitty,  perceiving  there  was  a  mystery  she  was  not  to  in- 
quire into,  returned  to  Orchard  Street,  really  glad  to  know 
that  her  mistress  was  safe,  but  disappointed  nevertheless  a* 


JANET'S  REPEXTAJJCE.  299 

being  told  that  she  was  not  to  be  frightened.  She  was  soon 
followed  by  Mrs.  Raynor  iii  quest  of  the  gown  and  bonnet. 
The  good  mother,  on  learning  that  Dempster  was  not  at 
home,  had  at  once  thought  that  she  could  gratify  Janet's 
wish  to  go  to  Paddiford  Church. 

"  See,  my  dear,"  she  said,  as  she  entered  Mrs.  Pettifer'a 
parlor ;  "  I've  brought  you  your  black  clothes.  Robert's  not 
at  home,  and  is  not  coming  till  this  evening.  I  couldn't  find 
your  best  black  gown,  but  this  will  do.  I  wouldn't  bring 
any  thing  else,  you  know ;  but  there  can't  be  any  objection 
to  my  fetching  clothes  to  cover  you.  You  can  go  to  Paddi- 
ford Church,  now,  if  you  like ;  and  I  will  go  with  you." 

"  That's  a  dear  mother !  Then  we'll  all  three  go  together. 
Come  and  help  me  to  get  ready.  Good  little  Mrs.  Crewe ! 
It  will  vex  her  sadly  that  I  should  go  to  hear  Mr.  Tryan. 
But  I  must  kiss  her,  and  make  it  up  with  her." 

Many  eves  were  turned  on  Janet  with  a  look  of  surprise 
as  she  walked  up  the  aisle  of  Paddiford  Church.  She  felt  a 
little  tremor  at  the  notice  she  knew  she  was  exciting,  but  it 
was  a  strong  satisfaction  to  her  that  she  had  been  able  at 
once  to  take  a  step  that  would  let  her  neighbors  know  her 
change  of  feeling  towards  Mr.  Tryan :  she  had  left  herself  now 
no  room  for  proud  reluctance  or  weak  hesitation.  The  walk 
through  the  sweet  spring  air  had  stimulated  all  her  fresh 
hopes,  all  her  yearning  desires  after  purity,  strength,  and 
peace.  She  thought  she  should  find  a  new  meaning  in  the 
prayers  this  morning ;  her  full  heart,  like  an  overflowing  riv- 
er, wanted  those  ready-made  channels  to  pour  itself  into ; 
and  then  she  should  hear  Mr.  Tryan  again,  and  his  words 
would  fall  on  her  like  precious  balm,  as  they  had  done  last 
night.  There  was  a  liquid  brightness  in  her  eyes  as  they 
rested  on  the  mere  walls,  the  pews,  the  weavers  and  colliers 
in  their  Sunday  clothes.  The  commonest  things  seemed  to 
touch  the  spring  of  love  within  her,  just  as,  when  we  are 
suddenly  released  from  an  acute  absorbing  bodily  pain,  our 
heart  and  senses  leap  out  in  new  freedom ;  we  think  even  the 
noise  of  streets  harmonious,  and  are  ready  to  hug  the  trades- 
man who  is  wrapping  up  our  change.  A  door  had  been  open- 
ed in  Janet's  cold  dark  prison  of  self-despair,  and  the  golden 
light  of  morning  was  pouring  in  its  slanting  beams  through  the 
blessed  opening.  There  was  sunlight  in  the  world;  there 
was  a  divine  love  caring  for  her ;  it  had  given  her  an  earnest 
of  good  things ;  it  had  been  preparing  comfort  for  her  in  the 
very  moment  when  she  had  thought  herself  most  forsaken. 

Mr.  Tryan  might  well  rejoice  when  his  eye  rested  on  her 
as  he  entered  his  desk ;  but  he  rejoiced  with  trembling.  He 


300  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIP*. 

could  not  look  at  the  sweet  hopeful  face  without  remember 
ing  its  yesterday's  look  of  agony ;  and  there  was  the  possi- 
bility that  that  look  might  return. 

Janet's  appearance  at  church  was  greeted  not  only  by 
wondering  eyes,  but  by  kind  hearts,  and  after  the  service  sev- 
eral of  Mr.  Tryan's  hearers  with  whom  she  had  been  on  cold 
terms  of  late,  contrived  to  come  up  to  her  and  take  her  by 
the  hand. 

"  Mother,"  said  Miss  Linnet, "  do  let  us  go  and  speak  to 
Mrs.  Dempster.  I'm  sure  there's  a  great  change  in  her  mind 
towards  Mr.  Tryan.  I  noticed  how  eagerly  she  listened  to 
the  sermon,  and  she's  come  with  Mrs.  Pettifer,  you  see.  We 
ought  to  go  and  give  her  a  welcome  among  us." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  we've  never  spoke  friendly  these  five 
year.  You  know  she's  been  as  haughty  as  any  thing  since  I 
quarrelled  with  her  husband.  However,  let  bygones  be  by~ 
gones  ;  I've  no  grudge  again'  the  poor  thing,  more  particular 
as  she  must  ha'  flew  in  her  husband's  face  to  come  and  hear 
Mr.  Tryan.  Yes,  let  us  go  an'  speak  to  her." 

The  friendly  words  and  looks  touched  Janet  a  little  too 
keenly,  and  Mrs.  I'ettifer  wisely  hurried  her  home  by  the 
least-frequented  road.  When  they  reached  home,  a  violent 
fit  of  weeping,  followed  by  continuous  lassitude,  showed  that 
the  emotions  of  the  morning  had  overstrained  her  nerves. 
She  was  suffering,  too,  from  the  absence  of  the  long-accus- 
tomed stimulus  which  she  had  promised  Mr.  Tryan  not  to 
touch  again.  The  poor  thing  was  conscious  of  this,  and 
dreaded  her  own  weakness,  as  the  victim  of  intermittent  in- 
sanity dreads  the  oncoming  of  the  old  illusion. 

"Mother,"  she  whispered,  when  Mrs.  Raynor  urged  her  to 
lie  down  and  rest  all  the  afternoon,  that  she  might  be  the 
better  prepared  to  see  Mr.  Tryan  in  the  evening — "  mother, 
don't  let  me  have  any  thing  if  I  ask  for  it." 

In  the  mother's  mind  there  was  the  same  anxiety,  and  in 
her  it  was  mingled  with  another  fear — the  fear  lest  Janet,  in 
her  present  excited  state  of  mind,  should  take  some  premature 
step  in  relation  to  her  husband,  which  might  lead  back  to  all 
the  former  troubles.  The  hint  she  had  thrown  out  in  the 
morning  of  her  wish  to  return  to  him  after  a  time,  showed  a 
new  eagerness  for  difficult  duties,  that  only  made  the  long- 
saddened  sober  mother  tremble. 

But  as  evening  approached,  Janet's  mom  ing  heroism  all  for- 
sook  her:  her  imagination,  influenced  by  physical  depression 
as  well  as  by  mental  habits,  was  haunted  by  the  vision  of  her 
husband's  return  home,  and  she  began  to  shudder  with  tho 
yesterday's  dread.  She  heard  him  calling  her,  gh«  saw  him 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  301 

going  to  her  mother's  to  look  for  her,  she  felt  sure  he  would 
find  her  out,  and  burst  in  upon  her. 

"  Pray,  pray,  don't  leave  me,  don't  go  to  church,"  she  said 
to  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  You  and  mother  both  stay  with  me  till 
Mr.  Tryan  comes." 

At  twenty  minutes  past  six  the  church  bells  were  ringing 
for  the  evening  service,  and  soon  the  congregation  was  stream- 
ing along  Orchard  Street  in  the  mellow  sunset.  The  street 
.-opened  towards  the  west.  The  red  half-sunken  sun  shed  a 
solemn  splendor  on  the  every-day  houses,  and  crimsoned  the 
windows  of  Dempster's  projecting  upper  story. 

Suddenly  a  loud  murmur  arose  and  spread  along  the  stream 
of  church-goers,  and  one  group  after  another  paused  and  look- 
ed backward.  At  the  far  end  of  the  street,  men,  accompanied 
by  a  miscellaneous  group  of  onlookers,  were  slowly  carry- 
ing something — a  body  stretched  on  a  door.  Slowly  they 
passed  along  the  middle  of  the  street,  lined  all  the  way  with 
awe-struck  faces,  till  they  turned  aside  and  paused  in  the  red 
sunlight  before  Dempster's  door. 

It  was  Dempster's  body.  No  one  knew  whether  he  was 
alive  or  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXH. 

IT  was  probably  a  hard  saying  to  the  Pharisees, that  "  there 
is  more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repentcth,  than 
over  ninety  and  nine  just  persons  that  need  no  repentance." 
And  certain  ingenious  philosophers  of  our  own  day  must  sure- 
ly take  offense  at  a  joy  so  entirely  out  of  correspondence  with 
arithmetical  proportion.  But  a  heart  that  has  been  taught 
by  its  own  sore  struggles  to  bleed  for  the  woes  of  another — 
that  has  "  learned  pity  through  suffering  " — is  likely  to  find 
very  imperfect  satisfaction  in  the  "  balance  of  happiness," 
"  doctrine  of  compensations,"  and  other  short  and  easy  meth- 
ods of  obtaining  thorough  complacency  in  the  presence  of 
pain ;  and  for  such  a  heart  that  saying  will  not  be  altogether 
dark.  The  emotions,  I  have  observed,  are  but  slightly  influ- 
enced by  arithmetical  considerations ;  the  mother,  when  her 
sweet  lisping  little  ones  have  all  been  taken  from  her  one  af 
ter  another,  and  she  is  hanging  over  her  last  dead  babe,  finds 
small  consolation  in  the  fact  that  the  tiny  dimpled  corpse  is  but 
one  of  a  necessary  average,  and  that  a  thousand  other  babes 
brought  into  the  world  at  the. same  time  are  doing  well,  and 
are  likely  to  live ;  and  if  you  stood  beside  that  mother — if 


302  SCENES    OF    CLERICAL   LIFE. 

you  knew  her  pang  and  shared  it — it  is  probable  you  would  be 
equally  unable  to  see  a  ground  of  complacency  in  statistics. 

Doubtless  a  complacency  resting  on  that  basis  is  highly 
rational ;  but  emotion,  I  fear,  is  obstinately  irrational :  it  in- 
sists on  caring  for  individuals  ;  it  absolutely  refuses  to  adopt 
the  quantitative  view  of  human  anguish,  and  to  admit  that 
thirteen  happy  lives  are  a  set  oft*  against  twelve  miserable 
lives,  which  leaves  a  clear  balance  on  the  side  of  satisfaction. 
This  is  the  inherent  imbecility  of  feeling,  and  one  must  be  a 
great  philosopher  to  have  got  quite  clear  of  all  that,  and  to 
have  emerged  into  the  serene  air  of  pure  intellect,  in  which  it 
is  evident  that  individuals  really  exist  for  no  other  purpose 
than  that  abstractions  may  be  drawn  from  them — abstractions 
that  may  rise  from  heaps  of  ruined  lives  like  the  sweet  savor 
of  a  sacrifice  in  the  nostrils  of  philosophers,  and  of  a  philo- 
sophic Deity.  And  so  it  comes  to  pass  that  for  the  man  who 
knows  sympathy  because  he  has  known  sorrow,  that  old,  old 
saying  about  the  joy  of  angels  over  the  repentant  sinner  out- 
weighing their  joy  over  the  ninety-nine  just,  has  a  meaning 
which  does  not  jar  with  the  language  of  his  own  heart.  It 
only  tells  him,  that  for  angels  too  there  is  a  transcendent  val- 
ue in  human  pain,  which  refuses  to  be  settled  by  equations; 
that  the  eyes  of  angels  too  are  turned  away  from  the  serene 
happiness  of  the  righteous  to  bend  with  yearning  pity  on  the 
poor  erring  soul  wandering  in  the  desert  where  no  water  is ; 
that  for  angels  too  the  misery  of  one  casts  so  tremendous  a 
shadow  as  to  eclipse  the  bliss  of  ninety-nine. 

Mr.  Tryan  had  gone  through  the  initiation  of  suffering  :  it 
is  no  wonder,  then,  that  Janet's  restoration  was  the  work  that 
lay  nearest  his  heart ;  and  that,  weary  as  he  was  in  body  when 
hje  entered  the  vestry  after  the  evening  service,  he  was  impa- 
tient to  fulfill  the  promise  of  seeing  her.  His  experience  ena- 
bled him  to  divine — what  was  the  fact — that  the  hopefulness 
of  the  morning  would  be  followed  by  a  return  of  depression 
and  discouragement ;  and  his  sense  of  the  inward  and  out- 
ward difficulties  in  the  way  of  her  restoration  was  so  keen, 
that  he  could  only  find  relief  from  the  foreboding  it  excited 
by  lifting  up  his  heart  in  prayer.  There  are  unseen  elements 
which  often  frustrate  our  wisest  calculations — which  raise  up 
the  sufferer  from  the  edge  of  the  grave,  contradicting  the 
prophecies  of  the  clear-sighted  physician,  and  fulfilling  the 
blind  clinging  hopes  of  affection ;  such  unseen  elements  Mr. 
Tryan  called  the  Divine  Will,  and  filled  up  the  margin  of  ig- 
norance which  surrounds  all  our  knowledge  with  the  feelings 
of  trust  and  resignation.  Perhaps  the  profoundest  philoso- 
phy could  hardly  fill  it  up  better. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  303 

His  mind  was  occupied  in  this  way  as  he  was  absently 
taking  oft*  his  gown,  when  Mr.  Landor  startled  him  by  enter- 
ing the  vestry  and  asking  abruptly, 

"Have  you  heard  the  news  about  Dempster?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Tryan,  anxiously;  "  what  is  it?" 

"  He  has  been  thrown  out  of  his  gig  in  the  Bridge  Way, 
and  he  was  taken  up  for  dead.  They  were  carrying  him  home 
as  we  were  coming  to  church,  and  I  staid  behind  to  see  what 
I  could  do.  I  went  in  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Dempster,  and  prepare 
her  a  little,  but  she  was  not  at  home.  Dempster  is  not  dead, 
however;  he  was  stunned  with  the  fall.  Pilgrim  came  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  he  says  the  right  leg  is  broken  in  two  places. 
It's  likely  to  be  a  terrible  case,  with  his  state  of  body.  It 
seems  he  was  more  drunk  than  usual,  and  they  say  he  came 
along  the  Bridge  Way  flogging  his  horse  like  a  madman,  till 
at  last  it  gave  a  sudden  wheel,  and  he  was  pitched  out.  The 
servants  said  they  didn't  know  where  Mrs.  Dempster  was  : 
she  had  been  away  from  home  since  yesterday  morning  ;  but 
Mrs.  Raynor  knew." 

"  I  know  where  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Tryau  ;  "  but  I  think  it 
will  be  better  for  her  not  to  be  told  of  this  just  yet." 

"  Ah,  that  was  what  Pilgrim  said,  and  so  I  didn't  go  round 
to  Mrs.  Raynor' s.  He  said  it  would  be  all  the  better  if  Mrs. 
Dempster  could  be  kept  out  of  the  house  for  the  present.  Do 
you  know  if  any  thing  new  has  happened  between  Dempster 
and  his  wife  lately  ?  I  was  surprised  to  hear  of  her  being  at 
Paddiford  Church  this  morning." 

"  Yes,  something  has  happened;  but  I  believe  she  is  anxious 
that  the  particulars  of  his  behavior  towards  her  should  not  be 
known.  She  is  at  Mrs.  Pettifer's — there  is  no  reason  for  con- 
cealing that,  since  what  has  happened  to  her  husband ;  and 
yesterday,  when  she  was  in  very  deep  trouble,  she  sent  for 
me.  I  was  very  thankful  she  did  so  :  I  believe  a  great  change 
of  feeling  has  begun  in  her.  But  she  is  at  present  in  that  ex- 
citable state  of  mind — she  has  been  shaken  by  so  many  pain- 
ful emotions  during  the  last  two  days,  that  I  think  it  would 
be  better,  for  this  evening  at  least,  to  guard  her  from  a  new 
shock,  if  possible.  But  I  am  going  now  to  call  upon  her,  and 
I  shall  see  how  she  is." 

"  Mr.  Tryan,"  said  Mr.  Jerome,  who  had  entered  during 
the  dialogue,  and  had  been  standing  by,  listening  with  a 
distressed  face,  "  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you'll  let  me 
know  if  iver  there's  any  thing  I  can  do  for  Mrs.  Dempster. 
Eh,  dear,  what  a  world  this  is  !  I  think  I  see  'em  fifteen 
year  ago — as  happy  a  young  couple  as  iver  was ;  and  now, 
what  it's  all  come  to !  I  was  in  a  hurry .  like,  to  punish 


304  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Dempster  for  pessecutin',  but  there  was  a  stronger  hand  at 
work  nor  mine." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Jerome  ;  but  don't  let  us  rejoice  in  punishment, 
even  when  the  hand  of  God  alone  inflicts  it.  The  best  of  us 
are  but  poor  wretches  just  saved  from  shipwreck :  can  we  feel 
any  thing  but  awe  and  pity  when  we  see  a  fellow-passenger 
swallowed  by  the  waves  ?" 

"  Right,  right,  Mr.  Tryan.  I'm  over  hot  and  hasty,  that  I 
am.  But  I  beg  on  you  to  tell  Mrs.  Dempster — I  mean,  in 
course,  when  you've  an  opportunity — tell  her  she's  a  friend  at 
the  White  House  as  she  may  send  for  any  hour  o'  the  day." 

"  Yes ;  I  shall  have  an  opportunity,  I  dare  say,  and  I  will 
remember  your  wish.  I  think,"  continued  Mr.  Tryan,  turning 
to  Mr.  Landor,  "  I  had  better  see  Mr.  Pilgrim  on  my  wav,  and 
learn  what  is  exactly  the  state  of  things  by  this  time.  What 
do  you  think  ?" 

"  By  all  means :  if  Mrs.  Dempster  is  to  know,  there's  no  one 
can  break  the  news  to  her  so  well  as  you.  I'll  walk  with  you 
to  Dempster's  door.  I  dare  say  Pilgrim  is  there  still.  Come, 
Mr.  Jerome,you've  got  to  go  our  way  too,  to  fetch  your  horse." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  was  in  the  passage  giving  some  directions  to 
his  assistant,  when,  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  Mr.  Tryan  enter. 
They  shook  hands  ;  for  Mr.  Pilgrim,  never  having  joined  the 
party  of  the  Anti-Tryanites,  had  no  ground  for  resisting  the 
growing  conviction  that  the  Evangelical  curate  was  really  a 
good  fellow,  though  he  was  a  fool  for  not  taking  better  care 
of  himself. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  in  your  old  enemy's  quar- 
ters," he  said  to  Mr.  Tryan.  "  However,  it  will  be  a  good 
while  before  poor  Dempster  shows  any  fight  again." 

"I  came  on  Mrs.  Dempster's  account,"  said  Mr.  Tryan. 
"  She  is  staying  at  Mrs.  Pettifer's  ;  she  has  had  a  great  shock 
from  some  severe  domestic  trouble  lately,  and  I  think  it  will 
be  wise  to  defer  telling  her  of  this  dreadful  event  for  a  short 
time." 

"  Why, what  has  been  up,  eh  ?"said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  whose  curi- 
osity was  at  once  awakened.  "  She  used  to  be  no  friend  of 
yours.  Has  there  been  some  split  between  them?  It's  a 
new  thing  for  her  to  turn  round  on  him." 

"  Oh,  merely  an  exaggeration  of  scenes  that  must  often 
have  happened  before.  But  the  question  now  is,  whether  you 
think  there  is  any  immediate  danger  of  her  husband's  de:ith  ; 
for  in  that  case,  I  think,  from  what  I  have  observed  of  her 
feelings,  she  would  be  pained  afterwards  to  have  been  kept 
in  ignorance." 

"  Well,  there's  no  telling  in  these  cases,  yon  know.     I  don't 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  305 

apprehend  speedy  death,  and  it  is  not  absolutely  impossible 
that  we  may  bring  him  round  again.  At  present  he's  in  a 
state  of  apoplectic  stupor ;  but  if  that  subsides,  delirium  is 
almost  sure  to  supervene,  and  we  shall  have  some  painful 
scenes.  It's  one  of  those  complicated  cases  in  which  the  de- 
lirium is  likely  to  be  of  the  worst  kind — meningitis  and  delir- 
ium tremens  together — and  we  may  have  a  good  deal  of  trou- 
ble with  him.  If  Mrs.  Dempster  were  told,  I  should  say  it 
would  be  desirable  to  persuade  her  to  remain  out  of  the  house 
at  present.  She  could  do  no  good,  you  know.  I've  got 
nurses." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Tryan.  "  That  is  what  I  wanted 
to  know.  Good-bye." 

When  Mrs.  Pettifer  opened  the  door  for  Mr.  Tryan,  he  told 
her  in  a  few  words  what  had  happened,  and  begged  her  to 
take  an  opportunity  of  letting  Mrs.  Raynor  know,  that  they 
might,  if  possible,  concur  in  preventing  a  premature  or  sud- 
den disclosure  of  the  event  to  Janet. 

"  Poor  thing  ?"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  She's  not  fit  to  hear 
any  bad  news ;  she's  very  low  this  evening — worn  out  with 
feeling ;  and  she's  not  had  any  thing  to  keep  her  up,  as  she's 
been  used  to.  She  seems  frightened  at  the  thought  of  being 
tempted  to  take  it." 

"  Thank  God  for  it ;  that  fear  is  her  greatest  security." 

When  Mr.  Tryan  entered  the  parlor  this  time,  Janet  was 
again  awaiting  him  eagerly,  and  her  pale  sad  face  was  light- 
ed up  with  a  smile  as  she  rose  to  meet  him.  But  the  next 
moment  she  said,  with  a  look  of  anxiety, 

"  How  very  ill  and  tired  you  look  !  You  have  been  work- 
ing so  hard  all  day,  and  yet  you  are  come  to  talk  to  me.  Oh, 
you  are  wearing  yourself  out.  I  must  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Pet- 
tifer to  come  and  make  you  have  some  supper.  But  this  is 
my  mother ;  you  have  not  seen  her  before,  I  think." 

While  Mr.  Tryan  was  speaking  to  Mrs.  Raynor,  Janet  hur- 
ried out,  and  he,  seeing  that  this  good-natui'ed  thoughtfulness 
on  his  behalf  would  help  to  counteract  her  depression,  was 
not  inclined  to  oppose  her  wish,  but  accepted  the  supper  Mrs. 
Pettifer  offered  him,  quietly  talking  the  while  about  a  cloth- 
ing club  he  was  going  to  establish  in  Paddiford,  and  the  want 
of  provident  habits  among  the  poor. 

Presently,  however,  Mrs.  Raynor  said  she  must  go  home 
for  an  hour,  to  see  how  her  little  maiden  was  going  on,  and 
Mrs.  Pettifer  left  the  room  with  her  to  take  the  opportunity 
of  telling  her  what  had  happened  to  Dempster.  When  Janet 
was  left  alone  with  Mr.  Tryan,  she  said, 

"I  feel  so  uncertain  what  to  do  about  my  husband.     I  am 


306  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

BO  weak — my  feelings  change  so  from  hour  to  hour.  This 
morning,  when  I  felt  so  hopeful  and  happy,  I  thought  I  should 
(ike  to  go  back  to  him,  and  try  to  make  up  for  what  has  been 
wrong  in  me.  I  thought,  now  God  would  help  me,  and  I 
should  have  you  to  teach  and  advise  me,  and  I  could  bear 
the  troubles  that  would  come.  But  since  then — all  this  af 
ternoon  and  evening — I  have  had  the  same  feelings  I  used 
to  have,  the  same  dread  of  his  anger  and  cruelty,  and  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  should  never  be  able  to  bear  it  without  falling 
into  the  same  sins,  and  doing  just  what  I  did  before.  Yet  if 
it  were  settled  that  I  should  live  apart  from  him,  I  know  it 
would  always  be  a  load  on  my  mind  that  I  had  shut  myself 
out  from  going  back  to  him.  It  seems  a  dreadful  thing  in 
life,  when  any  one  has  been  so  near  to  one  as  a  husband  for 
fifteen  years, to  part  and  be  nothing  to  each  other  anymore. 
Surely  that  is  a  very  strong  tie,  and  I  feel  as  if  my  duty  can 
never  lie  quite  away  from  it.  It  is  very  difficult  to  know 
what  to  do :  what  ought  I  to  do  ?" 

"  I  think  it  will  be  well  not  to  take  any  decisive  step  yet. 
Wait  until  your  mind  is  calmer.  You  might  remain  with 
your  mother  for  a  little  while  ;  I  think  you  have  no  real  ground 
for  fearing  any  annoyance  from  your  husband  at  present ;  he 
has  put  himself  too  much  in  the  wrong ;  he  will  very  likely 
leave  you  unmolested  for  some  time.  Dismiss  this  difficult 
question  from  your  mind  just  now,  if  you  can.  Every  new 
day  may  bring  you  new  grounds  for  decision,  and  what  is 
most  needful  for  your  health  of  mind  is  repose  from  that 
haunting  anxiety  about  the  future  which  has  been  preying 
on  you.  Cast  yourself  on  God,  and  trust  that  he  will  direct 
you;  he  will  make  your  duty  clear  to  you,  if  you  wait  sub- 
missively on  him." 

"  Yes  ;  I  will  wait  a  little,  as  you  tell  me.  I  will  go  to  my 
mother's  to-morrow,  and  pray  to  be  guided  rightly.  You 

il  pray  for  me,  too." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  next  morning  Janet  was  so  much  calmer,  antf  at 
breakfast  spoke  so  decidedly  of  going  to  her  mother's,  that 
Mrs.  Pettifer  and  Mrs.  Raynor  agreed  it  would  be  wise  to  let 
her  know  by  degrees  what  had  befallen  her  husband,  since  as 
soon  as  she  went  out  there  would  be  danger  of  her  meeting 
some  one  who  would  betray  the  fact.  But  Mrs.  Raynor 


JANET'S  KEPENTANCE.  307 

thought  it  would  be  well  first  to  call  at  Dempster's,  and  as- 
certain how  he  was :  so  she  said  to  Janet, 

"  My  dear,  I'll  go  home  first,  and  see  to  things,  and  get 
your  room  ready.  You  needn't  come  yet,  you  know.  I  shall 
be  back  again  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  we  can  go  together." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  Stay  with  me  till  evening. 
I  shall  be  lost  without  you.  You  needn't  go  till  quite  even- 
ing." 

Janet  had  dipped  into  the  "  Life  of  Henry  Martyn,"  which 
Mrs.  Pettifer  had  from  the  Paddiford  Lending  Library,  and 
her  interest  was  so  arrested  by  that  pathetic  missionary  story, 
that  she  readily  acquiesced  in  both  propositions,  and  Mrs. 
Ray  nor  set  out. 

She  had  been  gone  more  than  an  houi-,  and  it  was  nearly 
twelve  o'clock,  when  Janet  put  down  her  book ;  and  after  sit- 
ting meditatively  for  some  minutes  with  her  eyes  unconscious- 
ly fixed  on  the  opposite  wall,  she  rose,  went  to  her  bedroom, 
and,  hastily  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  came  down  to 
Mrs.  Pettifer,  who  was  busy  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Mrs.  Pettifer,"  she  said,  "  tell  mother,  when  she  conies 
back,  I'm  gone  to  see  what  has  become  of  those  poor  Lakins 
in  Butcher  Lane.  I  know  they're  half  starving,  and  I've  neg- 
lected them  so,  lately.  And  then,  I  think,  I'll  go  on  to  Mrs. 
Crewe.  I  want  to  see  the  dear  little  woman,  and  tell  her  my- 
self about  my  going  to  hear  Mr.  Try  an.  She  won't  feel  it 
half  so  much  if  I  tell  her  myself." 

"Won't  you  wait  till  your  mother  comes,  or  put  it  off  till 
to-morrow?"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  alarmed.  "  You'll  hardly  be 
back  in  time  for  dinner,  if  you  get  talking  to  Mrs.  Crewe. 
And  you'll  have  to  pass  by  your  husband's,  you  know;  and 
yesterday  you  were  so  afraid  of  seeing  him." 

"  Oh,  Robert  will  be  shut  up  at  the  office  now,  if  he's  r  iot 
gone  out  of  the  town.  I  must  go — I  feel  I  must  be  doing 
something  for  some  one — not  be  a  mere  useless  log  any 
longer.  I've  been  reading  about  that  wonderful  Henry  Mar- 
tyn; he's  just  like  Mr.  Tryan — wearing  himself  out  for  other 
people,  and  I  sit  thinking  of  nothing  but  myself.  I  must  go. 
Good-bye  ;  I  shall  be  back  soon." 

She  ran  off  before  Mrs.  Pettifer  could  utter  another  word 
of  dissuasion,  leaving  the  good  woman  in  considerable  anxie- 
ty lest  this  new  impulse  of  Janet's  should  frustrate  all  pre- 
cautions to  save  her  from  a  sudden  shock. 

Janet  having  paid  her  visit  in  Butcher  Lane,  turned  again 
into  Orchard  Street  on  her  way  to  Mrs.  Crowe's,  and  was 
thinking,  rather  sadly,  that  her  mother's  economical  house- 
keeping would  leave  no  abundant  surplus  to  be  sent  to  the 


308  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

hungry  Lakins,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Pilgrim  in  advance  of  her 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  He  was  walking  at  a  rapid 
pace,  and  when  he  reached  Dempster's  door  he  turned  and  en 
tered  without  knocking. 

Janet  was  startled.  Mr.  Pilgrim  would  never  enter  in  that 
way  unless  there  was  some  one  very  ill  in  the  house.  It  was 
her  husband ;  she  felt  certain  of  it  at  once.  Something  had 
happened  to  him.  Without  a  moment's  pause,  she  ran  across 
the  street,  opened  the  door,  and  entered.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  passage.  The  dining-room  door  was  wide  open — no 
one  was  there.  Mr.  Pilgrim,  then,  was  already  up  stairs. 
She  rushed  up  at  once  to  Dempster's  room — her  own  room. 
The  door  was  open,  and  she  paused  in  pale  horror  at  the  sight 
before  her,  which  seemed  to  stand  out  only  with  the  more  ap- 
palling distinctness  because  the  noonday  light  was  darkened 
to  twilight  in  the  chamber. 

T\vo  strong  nurses  were  using  their  utmost  force  to  hold 
Dempster  in  bed,  while  the  medical  assistant  was  applying  a 
sponge  to  his  head,  and  Mr.  Pilgrim  was  busy  adjusting  some 
apparatus  in  the  background.  Dempster's  face  was  purple 
and  swollen,  his  eyes  dilated,  and  fixed  with  a  look  of  dire 
terror  on  something  he  seemed  to  see  approaching  him  from 
the  iron  closet.  He  trembled  violently,  and  struggled  as  if 
to  jump  out  of  bed. 

"  Let  me  go,  let  me  go,"  he  said  in  a  loud,  hoarse  whisper ; 
"  She's  coming  ....  she's  cold  ....  she's  dead  ....  she'll 
strangle  me  with  her  black  hair.  Ah !"  he  shrieked  aloud, 
"  her  hair  is  all  serpents  ....  they're  black  serpents  .... 
they  hiss  ....  they  hiss ....  let  me  go  ....  let  me  go .... 
she  wants  to  drag  me  with  her  cold  arms  ....  her  arms  are 
serpents ....  they  are  great  white  serpents  ....  they'll  twine 
round  me  ....  she  wants  to  drag  me  into  the  cold  water  .... 
her  bosom  is  cold  ....  it  is  black.  ...  it  is  all  serpents.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  Robert,"  Janet  cried,  in  tones  of  yearning  pity,  rush- 
ing  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  stretching  out  her  arms  to- 
wards him,  "  no,  here  is  Janet.  She  is  not  dead — she  for- 
gives you." 

Dempster's  maddened  senses  seemed  to  receive  some  new 
impression  from  her  appearance.  The  terror  gave  way  to  rage. 

u  Ha !  you  sneaking  hypocinte  ?"  he  burst  out  in  a  grat- 
ing voice,  "  you  threaten  me  ....  you  mean  to  have  your 
revenge  on  me,  do  you  ?  Do  your  worst !  I've  got  the  law 
on  my  side.  ...  I  know  the  law.  .  .  .  I'll  hunt  you  down 
like  a  hare  ....  prove  it ....  prove  that  I  was  tampered 
with  ....  prove  that  I  took  the  money  ....  prove  it  .... 
you  can  prove  nothing  ....  you  damned  psalm-singing  mag- 


JANETS   REPENTANCE.  309 

gots !  I'll  make  a  fire  under  you,  and  smoke  off  the  whole 
pack  of  you.  .  .  .  I'll  sweep  you  up.  .  .  .  I'll  grind  you 
to  powder  ....  small  powder  ....  (here  his  voice  dropped 
to  a  low  tone  of  shuddering  disgust)  ....  powder  on  the 
bed-clothes ....  running  about  ....  black  lice  ....  they 
are  coming  in  swarms.  .  .  .  Janet !  come  and  take  them 
away  ....  curse  you  !  why  don't  you  come  ?  Janet !" 

Poor  Janet  was  kneeling  by  the  bed  with  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands.  She  almost  wished  her  worst  moment  back 
again  rather  than  this.  It  seemed  as  if  her  husband  was  al- 
ready imprisoned  in  misery,  and  she  could  not  reach  him — 
his  ear  deaf  forever  to  the  sounds  of  love  and  forgiveness. 
His  sins  had  made  a  hard  crust  round  his  soul ;  her  pitying 
voice  could  not  pierce  it. 

"  Not  there,  isn't  she  ?"  he  went  on  in  a  defiant  tone. 
"  Why  do  you  ask  me  where  she  is  ?  I'll  have  every  drop 
of  yellow  blood  out  of  your  veins  if  you  come  questioning 
me.  Your  blood  is  yellow  ....  in  your  purse  ....  running 
out  of  your  purse. . . .  What !  you're  changing  it  into  toads, 
are  you  ?  They're  crawling  ....  they're  flying  ....  they're 
flying  about  my  head  ....  the  toads  are  flying  about.  Ost- 
ler !  ostler !  bring  out  my  gig  ....  bring  it  out,  you  lazy 
beast  ....  ha !  you'll  follow  me,  will  you  ?  .  .  .  .  you'll  fly 
about  my  head  ....  you've  got  fiery  tongues.  .  .  .  Ostler ! 
curse  you !  why  don't  you  come  ?  Janet !  come  and  take 
the  toads  away.  .  .  .  Janet !" 

This  last  time  he  uttered  her  name  with  such  a  shriek  of 
terror,  that  Janet  involuntai'ily  started  up  from  her  knees, 
rtnd  stood  as  if  petrified  by  the  horrible  vibration.  Dempster 
i tared  wildly  in  silence  for  some  moments;  then  he  spoke 
again  in  a  hoarse  whisper : 

"  Dead  ....  is  she  dead  ?  She  did  it,  then.  She  buried 
herself  in  the  iron  chest ....  she  left  her  clothes  out,  though 
....  she  isn't  dead  ....  why  do  you  pretend  she's  dead  ? 
....  she's  coming  ....  she's  coming  out  of  the  iron  closet 
....  there  are  the  black  serpents  ....  stop  her  ....  let  me 
go  ....  stop  her  ....  she  wants  to  drag  me  away  into  the 
cold  black  water  ....  her  bosom  is  black  ....  it  is  all  ser- 
pents ....  they  are  getting  longer  ....  the  great  white  ser- 
pents are  getting  longer  .  .  .  ." 

Here  Mr.  Pilgrim  came  forward  with  the  apparatus  to 
bind  him,  but  Dempster's  struggles  became  more  and  more 
violent.  "  Ostler  !  ostler !"  he  shouted,  "  bring  out  the  gig 
....  give  me  the  whip  !" — and  bursting  loose  from  the  strong 
hands  that  held  him,  he  began  to  flog  the  bed-clothes  furious- 
ly with  his  right  arm. 


310  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

"  Get  along,  you  lame  brute  ! — sc  —  sc  —  sc !  that's  it  1 
there  you  go  !  They  think  they've  outwitted  me,  do  they  ? 
The  sneaking  idiots  !  I'll  be  up  with  them  by-and-by.  I'll 
make  them  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  backwards.  .  .  .  I'll  pep- 
per them  so  that  the  devil  shall  eat  them  raw ....  sc — sc — sc 
— we  shall  see  who'll  be  the  winner  yet  ....  got  along, 
you  damned  limping  beast. . . .  I'll  lay  your  back  open. . . . 
ril " 

He  raised  himself  with  a  stronger  effort  than  ever  to  flog 
4he  bed-clothes,  and  fell  back  in  convulsions.  Janet  gave  a 
scream,  and  sank  on  her  knees  again.  She  thought  he  was 
dead. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Pilgrim  was  able  to  give  her  a  moment's 
attention,  he  came  to  her,  and,  taking  her  by  the  arm  attempt- 
ed to  draw  her  gently  out  of  the  room. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  let  me  persuade  you  not 
to  remain  in  the  room  at  present.  We  shall  soon  relieve 
these  symptoms,  I  hope  ;  it  is  nothing  but  the  delirium  that 
ordinarily  attends  such  casei?*- 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  matter  ?  what  brought  it  on  ?" 

"  He  fell  out  of  the  gig ;  the  right  leg  is  broken.  It  is  a 
terrible  accident,  and  I  don't  disguise  that  there  is  consider- 
able danger  attending  it,  owing  to  the  state  of  the  brain. 
But  Mr.  Dempster  has  a  strong  constitution,  you  know ;  in  a 
few  davs  these  symptoms  may  be  allayed,  and  he  may  do 
well.  Let  me  beg  of  you  to  keep  out  of  the  room  at  present : 
you  can  do  no  good  until  Mr.  Dempster  is  better,  and  able  to 
know  you.  But  you  ought  not  to  be  alone ;  let  me  advise 
you  to  have  Mrs.  Kaynor  with  you." 

"  Yes,  I  will  send  for  mother.  But  you  must  not  object  to 
my  being  in  the  room.  I  shall  be  very  quiet  now,  only  just 
at  first  the  shock  was  so  great ;  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  I 
can  help  the  nurses  a  great  deal ;  I  can  put  the  cold  things 
to  his  head.  He  may  be  sensible  for  a  moment  and  know 
me.  Pray  do  not  say  any  more  against  it :  my  heart  is  set 
on  being  with  him." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  gave  way,  and  Janet,  having  sent  for  her 
mother  and  put  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  returned  to  take  her 
place  by  the  aide  of  her  husband's  bed. 


JANETS   REPENTANCE.  311 


CHAPTER  XXFV. 

DAT  after  day,  with  only  short  intervals  of  rest,  Janet 
kept  her  place  in  that  sad  chamber.  No  wonder  the  sick- 
room and  the  lazaretto  have  so  often  been  a  refuge  from  the 
tossings  of  intellectual  doubt — a  place  of  repose  for  the  worn 
and  wounded  spirit.  Here  is  a  duty  about  which  all  creeds 
and  all  philosophies  are  of  one  ;  here,  at  least,  the  conscience 
will  not  be  dogged  by  doubt,  the  benign  impulse  will  not  be 
checked  by  adverse  theory  :  here  you  may  begin  to  act  with- 
out settling  one  preliminary  question,  lo  moisten  the  suf- 
ferer's parched  lips  through  the  long  night-watches,  to  bear 
up  the  drooping  head,  to  lift  the  helpless  limbs,  to  divine  the 
want  that  can  find  no  utterance  beyond  the  feeble  motion 
of  the  hand  or  beseeching  glance  of  the  eye — these  are  of- 
fices that  demand  no  self-questionings,  no  casuistry,  no  assent 
to  propositions,  no  weighing  of  consequences.  Within  the 
four  walls  where  the  stir  and  glare  of  the  world  are  shut  out, 
and  every  voice  is  subdued — where  a  human  being  lies  pros- 
trate, thrown  on  the  tender  mercies  of  his  fellow,  the  moral 
relation  of  man  to  man  is  reduced  to  its  utmost  clearness  and 
simplicity  :  bigotry  can  not  confuse  it,  theory  can  not  per- 
vert it,  passion,  awed  into  quiescence,  can  neither  pollute  nor 
perturb  it.  As  we  bend  over  the  sick-bed,  all  the  forces  of 
our  nature  rush  towards  the  channels  of  pity,  of  patience, 
and  of  love,  and  sweep  down  the  miserable  choking  drift  of 
our  quarrels,  our  debates,  our  would-be  wisdom,  and  our 
clamorous  selfish  desires.  This  blessing  of  serene  freedom  from 
the  importunities  of  opinion  lies  in  all  simple  direct  acts  of 
mercy,  and  is  one  source  of  that  sweet  calm  which  is  often 
felt  by  the  watcher  in  the  sick-room,  even  when  the  duties 
there  are  of  a  hard  and  terrible  kind. 

Something  of  that  benign  result  was  felt  by  Janet  during 
her  tendance  in  her  husband's  chamber.  When  the  first 
heart-piercing  hours  were  over — when  her  horror  at  his  delir- 
ium was  no  longer  fresh,  she  began  to  be  conscious  of  her 
relief  from  the  burthen  of  decision  as  to  her  future  course. 
The  question  that  agitated  her,  about  returning  to  her  hus- 
band, had  been  solved  in  a  moment ;  and  this  illness,  after 
all,  might  be  the  herald  of  another  blessing,  just  as  that 
di'eadful  midnight  when  she  stood  an  outcast  in  cold  and 
darkness  had  been  followed  by  the  dawn  of  a  new  hope. 


312  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Robert  would  get  better ;  this  illness  might  alter  him ;  he 
would  be  a  long  time  feeble,  needing  help,  walking  with  a 
crutch,  perhaps.  She  would  wait  on  him  with  such  tender- 
ness, such  all-forgiving  love,  that  the  old  harshness  and  cruel- 
ty must  melt  away  forever  under  the  heart-sunshine  she 
would  pour  around  him.  Her  bosom  heaved  at  the  thought, 
and  delicious  tears  fell.  Janet's  was  a  nature  in  which  ha- 
tred and  revenge  could  find  no  place ;  the  long  bitter  years 
drew  half  their  bitterness  from  her  ever-living  remembrance 
of  the  too  short  years  of  love  that  went  before ;  and  the 
thought  that  her  husband  would  ever  put  her  hand  to  his 
lips  again,  and  recall  the  days  when  they  sat  on  the  grass  to- 
gether, and  he  laid  scarlet  poppies  on  her  black  hair,  and  call- 
ed her  his  gypsy  queen,  seemed  to  send  a  tide  of  loving  ob- 
livion over  all  the  harsh  and  stony  space  they  had  traversed 
since.  The  Divine  Love  that  had  already  shone  upon  her  would 
be  with  her ;  she  would  lift  up  her  soul  continually  for  help  ; 
Mr.  Tryan,  she  knew,  would  pray  for  her.  If  she  felt  herself 
failing,  she  would  confess  it  to  him  at  once ;  if  her  feet  be- 
gan to  slip,  there  was  that  stay  for  her  to  cling  to.  Oh,  she 
could  never  be  drawn  back  into  that  cold  damp  vault  of  sin 
and  despair  again ;  she  had  felt  the  morning  sun,  she  had 
tasted  the  sweet  pure  air  of  trust  and  penitence  and  submis- 
sion. 

These  were  the  thoughts  passing  through  Janet's  mind  as 
she  hovered  about  her  husband's  bed,  and  these  were  the 
hopes  she  poured  out  to  Mr.  Tryan  when  he  called  to  see  her. 
It  was  so  evident  that  they  were  strengthening  her  in  her 
new  struggle — they  shed  such  a  glow  of  calm  enthusiasm 
over  her  face  as  she  spoke  of  them,  that  Mr.  Tryan  could  not 
bear  to  throw  on  them  the  chill  of  premonitory  doubts,  though 
a  previous  conversation  he  had  had  with  Mr.  Pilgrim  had 
convinced  him  that  there  was  not  the  faintest  probabili- 
ty of  Dempster's  recovery.  Poor  Janet  did  not  know  the 
significance  of  the  changing  symptoms,  and  when,  after  the 
lapse  of  a  week,  the  delirium  began  to  lose  some  of  its  vio- 
lence, and  to  be  interrupted  by  longer  and  longer  intervals 
of  stupor,  she  tried  to  think  that  these  might  be  steps  on  the 
way  to  recovery,  and  she  shrank  from  questioning  Mr.  Pil- 
grim lest  he  should  confirm  the  fears  that  began  to  get  pre- 
dominance in  her  mind.  But  before  many  days  were  past, 
he  thought  it  right  not  to  allow  her  to  blind  herself  any 
longer.  One  day — it  was  just  about  noon,  when  bad  news  al- 
ways seems  most  sickening — he  led  her  from  her  husband's 
chamber  into  the  opposite  drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Ray  nor 
was  sitting,  and  said  to  her,  in  that  low  tone  of  sympathetic 


JANET'S   REPENTANCE.  313 

feeling  which  sometimes  gave  a  sudden  air  of  gentleness  to 
this  rough  man — 

•  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  it  is  right  in  these  cases,  you 
know,  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst.  I  think  I  shall  be  sav- 
ing you  pain  by  preventing  you  from  entertaining  any  false 
hopes,  and  Mr.  Dempster's  state  is  now  such  that  I  fear  we 
must  consider  recovery  impossible.  The  affection  of  the 
brain  might  not  have  been  hopeless,  but,  you  see,  there  is  a 
terrible  complication ;  and  1  am  grieved  to  say  the  broken 
limb  is  mortifying." 

Janet  listened  with  a  sinking  heart.  That  future  of  love 
and  forgiveness  would  never  come,  then :  he  was  going  out 
of  her  sight  forever,  where  her  pity  could  never  reach  him. 
She  turned  cold,  and  trembled. 

"  But  do  you  think  he  will  die,"  she  said, "  without  ever 
coming  to  himself?  without  ever  knowing  me?" 

"  One  can  not  say  that  with  certainty.  It  is  not  impossi- 
ble that  the  cerebral  oppression  may  subside,  and  that  he  may 
become  conscious.  If  there  is  any  thing  you  would  wish  to 
be  said  or  done  in  that  case,  it  would  be  well  to  be  prepared. 
I  should  think,"  Mr.  Pilgrim  continued,  turning  to  Mrs.  Ray- 
nor,  "  Mr.  Dempster's  affairs  are  likely  to  be  in  order — his 
will  is  ...  ." 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  him  troubled  about  those  things," 
interrupted  Janet,  "  he  has  no  relations  but  quite  distant  ones 
— no  one  but  me.  I  wouldn't  take  up  the  time  with  that.  I 
only  want  to  ...  ." 

She  was  unable  to  finish  ;  she  felt  her  sobs  rising,  and  left 
the  room.  "  O  God  !"  she  said  inwardly, "  is  not  Thy  love 
greater  ithan  mine  ?  Have  mercy  on  him !  have  mercy  on 
him  !" 

This  happened  on  Wednesday,  ten  days  after  the  fatal  ac- 
cident. By  the  following  Sunday  Dempster  was  in  a  state 
of  rapidly  increasing  prostration ;  and  when  Mr.  Pilgrim, 
who,  in  turn  with  his  assistant,  had  slept  in  the  house  from 
the  beginning,  came  in,  about  half  past  ten,  as  usual,  he  scarce- 
ly believed  that  the  feebly  struggling  life  would  last  out  till 
morning.  For  the  last  few  days  he  had  been  administering 
stimulants  to  relieve  the  exhaustion  which  had  succeeded  the 
alternations  of  delirium  and  stupor.  This  slight  office  was  all 
that  now  remained  to  be  done  for  the  patient ;  so  at  eleven 
o'clock  Mr.  Pilgrim  went  to  bed,  having  given  directions  to 
the  nurse,  and  desired  her  to  call  him  if  any  change  took  place, 
or  if  Mrs.  Dempster  desired  his  presence. 

Janet  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  the  room.  She  waa 
yearning  and  watching  for  a  moment  in  which  her  husband's 

14 


314  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

eyes  would  rest  consciously  upon  her,  and  he  would  know 
that  she  had  forgiven  him. 

How  changed  he  was  since  that  terrible  Monday,  nearly  .a 
fortnight  ago !  He  lay  motionless,  but  for  the  irregular 
breathing  that  stirred  his  broad  chest  and  thick  muscular 
neck.  His  features  were  no  longer  purple  and  swollen  ;  they 
were  pale,  sunken,  and  haggard.  A  cold  perspiration  stood  • 
in  beads  on  the  protuberant  forehead,  and  on  the  wasted 
hands  stretched  motionless  on  the  bed-clothes.  It  was  better 
to  see  the  hands  so,  than  convulsively  picking  the  air,  as  they 
had  been  a  week  ago. 

Janet  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  through  the  long  hours 
of  candle-light,  watching  the  unconscious  half -closed  eyes, 
wiping  the  perspiration  from  the  brow  and  cheeks,  and  keep- 
ing her  left  hand  on  the  cold  unanswering  right  hand  that 
lay  beside  her  on  the  bed-clothes.  She  was  almost  as  pale  as 
her  dying  husband,  and  there  were  dark  lines  under  her  eyes, 
for  this  was  the  third  night  since  she  had  taken  off  her  clothes; 
but  the  eager  straining  gaze  of  her  dark  eyes,  and  the  acute 
sensibility  that  lay  in  every  line  about  her  mouth,  made  a 
strange  contrast  with  the  blank  unconsciousness  and  emacia- 
ted animalism  of  the  face  she  was  watching. 

There  was  profound  stillness  in  the  house.  She  heard  no 
sound  but  her  husband's  breathing  and  the  ticking  of  the 
watch  on  the  mantel-piece.  The  candle,  placed  high  up,  shed 
a  soft  light  down  on  the  one  object  she  cared  to  see.  There 
was  a  smell  of  brandy  in  the  room ;  it  was  given  to  her  hus- 
band from  time  to  time ;  but  this  smell,  which  at  first  had 
produced  in  her  a  faint  shuddering  sensation,  was  now  becom- 
ing indifferent  to  her :  she  did  not  even  perceive  it ;  she  was 
too  unconscious  of  herself  to  feel  either  temptations  or  accu- 
sations. She  only  felt  that  the  husband  of  her  youth  was 
dying  ;  far,  far  out  of  her  reach,  as  if  she  were  standing  help- 
less on  the  shore,  while  he  was  sinking  in  the  black  storm- 
waves  ;  she  only  yearned  for  one  moment  in  which  she  might 
satisfy  the  deep  forgiving  pity  of  her  soul  by  one  look  of  love, 
one  word  of  tenderness. 

Her  sensations  and  thoughts  were  so  persistent  that  she 
could  not  measure  the  hours,  and  it  was  a  surprise  to  her 
when  the  nurse  put  out  the  candle,  and  let  in  the  faint  morn- 
ing light.  Mrs.  Raynor,  anxious  about  Janet,  was  already 
up,  and  now  brought  in  some  fresh  coffee  for  her ;  and  Mr. 
Pilgrim  having  awaked,  had  hurried  on  his  clothes  and  was 
coming  in  to  see  how  Dempster  was. 

This  change  from  candle-light  to  morning,  this  recom- 
mencement of  the  same  round  of  things  that  had  happened 


JANET'S  KEPENTANCE.  315 

yesterday,  was  a  discouragement  rather  than  a  relief  to 
Janet.  She  was  more  conscious  of  her  chill  weariness  ;  the 
new  light  thrown  on  her  husband's  face  seemed  to  reveal  the 
still  work  that  death  had  been  doing  through  the  night ;  she 
felt  her  last  lingering  hope  that  he  would  ever  know  her 
again  forsake  her. 

But  now,  Mr.  Pilgrim,  having  felt  the  pulse,  was  putting 
some  brandy  in  a  tea-spoon  between  Dempster's  lips ;  the 
brandy  went  down  and  his  breathing  became  freer.  Janet 
noticed  the  change,  and  her  heart  beat  faster  as  she  leaned 
forward  to  watch  him.  Suddenly  a  slight  movement,  like 
the  passing  away  of  a  shadow,  was  visible  in  his  face,  and  he 
opened  his  eyes  full  on  Janet. 

It  was  almost  like  meeting  him  again  on  the  resurrection 
morning,  after  the  night  of  the  grave. 

"  Robert,  do  you  know  me  ?" 

He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  and  there  was  a  faintly  per- 
ceptible motion  of  the  lips,  as  if  he  wanted  to  speak. 

But  the  moment  of  speech  was  forever  gone — the  moment 
for  asking  pardon  of  her,  if  he  wanted  to  ask  it.  Could  he 
read  the  full  forgiveness  that  was  written  in  her  eyes?  She 
never  knew ;  for,  as  she  was  bending  to  kiss  him,  the  thick 
veil  of  death  fell  between  them,  and  her  lips  touched  a  corpse. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

TnE  laces  looked  very  hard  and  unmoved  that  surrounded 
Dempster's  grave,  while  old  Mr.  Crewe  read  the  burial  serv- 
ice in  his  low,  broken  voice.  The  pall-bearers  were  such 
men  as  Mr.  Pittman,  Mr.  Lowme,  and  Mr.  Budd — men  whom 
Dempster  had  called  his  friends  while  he  was  in  life ;  and 
worldly  faces  never  look  so  worldly  as  at  a  funeral.  They 
have  the  same  effect  of  grating  incongruity  as  the  sound  of  a 
coarse  voice  breaking  the  solemn  silence  of  night. 

The  one  face  that  had  sorrow  in  it  was  covered  by  a  thick 
crape  veil,  and  the  sorrow  was  suppressed  and  silent.  No 
one  knew  how  deep  it  was ;  for  the  thought  in  most  of  her 
neighbors'  minds  was,  that  Mrs.  Dempster  could  hardly  have 
had  better  fortune  than  to  lose  a  bad  husband  who  had  left 
her  the  compensation  of  a  good  income.  They  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  conceive  that  her  husband's  death  could  be  felt  by 
her  otherwise  than  as  a  deliverance.  The  person  who  was 
most  thoroughly  convinced  that  Janet's  grief  was  deep  and 


SI 6  SCENES   OF   CLEEICAL   LIFE. 

real,  was  Mr.  Pilgrim,  who  in  general  was  not  at  all  weakly 
given  to  a  belief  in  disinterested  feeling. 

"  That  woman  has  a  tender  heart,"  he  was  frequently  heard 
to  observe  in  his  morning  rounds  about  this  time.  "  I  used 
to  think  there  was  a  great  deal  of  palaver  in  her,  but  you  may 
depend  upon  it  there's  no  pretense  about  her.  If  he'd  been 
the  kindest  husband  in  the  world  she  couldn't  have  felt  more. 
There's  a  great  deal  of  good  in  Mrs.  Dempster — a  great  deal 
of  good." 

"/always  said  so,"  was  Mrs.  Lowme's  reply,  when  he 
made  the  observation  to  her;  "she  was  always  so  very  full 
of  pretty  attentions  to  me  when  I  was  ill.  But  they  tell  me 
now  she's  turned  Tryanite  ;  if  that's  it  we  sha'n't  agree  again. 
It's  very  inconsistent  in  her,  I  think,  turning  round  in  that 
way,  after  being  the  foremost  to  laugh  at  the  Tryanite  cant, 
and  especially  in  a  woman  of  her  habits ;  she  should  cure 
herself  of  them  before  she  pretends  to  be  over-religious." 

"  Well,  I  think  she  means  to  cure  herself,  do  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  whose  good-will  towards  Janet  was  just  now 
quite  above  that  temperate  point  at  which  he  could  indulge 
his  feminine  patients  with  a  little  judicious  detraction.  "I 
feel  sure  sl*e  has  not  taken  any  stimulants  all  through  her 
husband's  illness  ;  and  she  has  been  constantly  in  the  way  of 
them.  I  can  see  she  sometimes  suffers  a  good  deal  of  depres- 
sion for  want  of  them — it  shows  all  the  more  resolution  in 
her.  Those  cures  are  rare ;  but  I've  known  them  happen 
sometimes  with  people  of  strong  will." 

Miu  Lowme  took  an  opportunity  of  retailing  Mr.  Pilgrim's 
conversation  to  Mrs.  Phipps,  who,  as  a  victim  of  Pratt  and 
plethora,  could  rarely  enjoy  that  pleasure  at  first-hand.  Mrs. 
Phipps  was  a  woman  of  decided  opinions,  though  of  wheezy 
utterance. 

"  For  my  part,"  she  remarked,  "  I'm  glad  to  hear  there's 
any  likelihood  of  improvement  in  Mrs.  Dempster,  but  I  think 
the  way  things  have  turned  out  seems  to  show  that  she  was 
more  to  blame  than  people  thought  she  was ;  else,  why  should 
she  feel  so  much  about  her  husband  ?  And  Dempster,  I  un- 
derstand, has  left  his  wife  pretty  nearly  all  his  property  to 
do  as  she  likes  with ;  that  isn't  behaving  like  such  a  very 
bad  husband.  I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Dempster  can  have  had 
so  much  provocation  as  they  pretended.  I've  known  hus- 
bands who've  laid  plans  for  tormenting  their  wives  when 
they're  underground — tying  up  their  money  and  hindering 
them  from  marrying  again.  Not  that  I  should  ever  wish 
to  marry  again;  I  think  one  husband  in  one's  life  is  enough, 
in  all  conscience;" — here  she  threw  a  fierce  glance  at  the 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  317 

amiable  Mr.  Phipps,  who  was  innocently  delighting  himself 
with  the  facetiae,  in  the  "Kotherby  Guardian,"  and  thinking 
the  editor  must  be  a  droll  fellow — "  but  it's  aggravating  to 
be  tied  up  in  that  way.  Why,  they  say  Mrs.  Dempster  will 
have  as  good  as  six  hundred  a-year  at  least.  A  tine  thing 
for  her,  that  was  a  poor  girl  without  a  farthing  to  her  fortune. 
It's  well  if  she  doesn't  make  ducks  and  drakes  of  it  some- 
how." 

Mrs.  Phipps's  view  of  Janet,  however,  was  far  from  being 
the  prevalent  one  in  Milby.  Even  neighbors  who  had  no 
strong  personal  interest  in  her,  could  hardly  see  the  noble- 
looking  woman  in  her  widow's  dress,  with  a  sad  sweet  gravi- 
ty in  her  face,  and  not  be  touched  with  fresh  admiration  for 
her — and  not  feel,  at  least  vaguely,  that  she  had  entered  on  a 
new  life  in  which  it  was  a  sort  of  desecration  to  allude  to 
the  painful  past.  And  the  old  friends  who  had  a  real  regard 
for  her,  but  whose  cordiality  had  been  repelled  or  chilled  of 
late  years,  now  came  round  her  with  hearty  demonstration!, 
of  affection.  Mr.  Jerome  felt  that  his  happiness  had  a  sub- 
stantial addition  now  he  could  once  more  call  on  that  "nice 
little  woman  Mrs.  Dempster,"  and  think  of  her  with  rejoic- 
ing instead  of  sorrow.  The  Pratts  lost  no  time  in  returning 
to  the  footing  of  old-established  friendship  with  Janet  and 
her  mother ;  and  Miss  Pratt  felt  it  incumbent  on  her,  on  all 
suitable  occasions,  to  deliver  a  very  emphatic  approval  of  the 
remarkable  strength  of  mind  she  understood  Mrs.  Dempster 
to  be  exhibiting.  The  Miss  Linnets  were  eager  to  meet  Mr. 
Tryan's  wishes  by  greeting  Janet  as  one  who  was  likely  to 
be  a  sister  in  religious  feeling  and  good  works ;  and  Mrs. 
Linnet  was  so  agreeably  surprised  by  the  fact  that  Demp- 
ster had  left  his  wife  the  money  "  in  that  handsome  way,  to 
do  what  she  liked  with  it,"  that  she  even  included  Dempster 
himself,  and  his  villainous  discovery  of  the  flaw  in  her  title 
to  Pye's  Croft,  in  her  magnanimous  oblivion  of  past  offenses. 
She  and  Mrs.  Jerome  agreed  over  a  friendly  cup  of  tea  that 
there  were  "  a  many  husbands  as  was  very  fine  spoken  an' 
all  that,  an'  yet  all  the  while  kep'  a  will  locked  up  from  you, 
as  tied  you  up  as  tight  as  any  thing.  I  assure  you"  Mrs. 
Jerome  continued,  dropping  her  voice  in  a  confidential  man- 
ner, "  I  know  no  more  to  this  day  about  Mr.  Jerome's  will, 
nor  the  child  as  is  unborn.  I've  no  fears  about  a  income — 
I'm  well  aware  Mr.  Jerome  'ud  niver  leave  me  stret  for  that ; 
but  I  should  like  to  hev  a  thousand  or  two  at  my  own  dis- 
posial ;  it  makes  a  widow  a  deal  more  looked  on." 

Perhaps  this  ground  of  respect  to  widows  might  not  be 
entirely  without  its  influence  on  the  Milby  mind,  and  might 


318  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

do  something  towards  conciliating  those  more  aristocratic 
acquaintances  of  Janet's,  who  would  otherwise  have  been  in- 
clined to  take  the  severest  view  of  her  apostasy  towards 
Evangelicalism.  Errors  look  so  very  ugly  in  persons  of  small 
means — one  feels  they  are  taking  quite  a  liberty  in  going 
astray  ;  whereas  people  of  fortune  may  naturally  indulge  in  a 
few  delinquencies.  "  They've  got  the  money  for  it,"  as  the 
girl  said  of  her  mistress  who  had  made  herself  ill  with  pick- 
led salmon.  However  it  may  have  been,  there  was  not  an 
acquaintance  of  Janet's  in  Milby,  that  did  not  offer  her  civili- 
ties in  the  early  days  of  her  widowhood.  Even  the  severe 
Mrs.  Phipps  was  not  an  exception ;  for  heaven  knows  what 
would  become  of  our  sociality  if  we  never  visited  people  we 
speak  ill  of:  we  should  live,  like  Egyptian  hermits,  in  crowd- 
ed solitude. 

Perhaps  the  attentions  most  grateful  to  Janet  were  those 
of  her  old  friend  Mrs.  Ore  we,  whose  attachment  to  her  fa- 
vorite proved  quite  too  strong  for  any  resentment  she  might 
be  supposed  to  feel  on  the  score  of  Mr.  Tryan.  The  little 
deaf  old  lady  couldn't  do  without  her  accustomed  visitor, 
whom  she  had  seen  grow  up  from  child  to  woman,  always  so 
willing  to  chat  with  her  and  tell  her  all  the  news,  though 
she  was  deaf;  while  other  people  thought  it  tiresome  to 
shout  in  her  ear,  and  irritated  her  by  recommending-  ear- 
trumpets  of  various  construction. 

All  this  friendliness  was  very  precious  to  Janet.  She 
was  conscious  of  the  aid  it  gave  her  in  the  self-conquest 
which  was  the  blessing  she  prayed  for  with  every  fresh 
morning.  The  chief  strength  of  her  nature  lay  in  her  affec- 
tion, which  colored  all  the  rest  of  her  mind :  it  gave  a  per- 
sonal sisterly  tenderness  to  her  acts  of  benevolence  ;  it  made 
her  cling  with  tenacity  to  every  object  that  had  once  stirred 
her  kindly  emotions.  Alas  !  it  was  unsatisfied,  wounded  af- 
fection that  had  made  her  trouble  greater  than  she  could 
bear.  And  now  there  was  no  check  to  the  full  flow  of  that 
plenteous  current  in  her  nature — no  gnawing  secret  anguish 
— no  overhanging  terror — no  inward  shame.  Friendly  faces 
beamed  on  her ;  she  felt  that  friendly  hearts  were  approving 
her,  and  wishing  her  well,  and  that  mild  sunshine  of  good- 
will fell  beneficently  on  her  new  hopes  and  efforts,  as  the 
clear  shining  after  rain  falls  on  the  tender  leaf-buds  of  spring, 
and  wins  them  from  promise  to  fulfillment. 

And  she  needed  these  secondary  helps,  for  her  wrestling 
with  her  past  self  was  not  always  easy.  The  strong  emotions 
from  which  the  life  of  a  human  being  receives  a  new  bias,  win 
their  victory  as  the  sea  wins  his  :  though  their. advan°-e  may 


JANET'S  KEPENTANCE.  319 

be  sure,  they  will  often,  after  a  mightier  wave  than  usual, 
seem  to  roll  back  so  far  as  to  lose  all  the  ground  they  had 
made.  Janet  showed  the  strong  bent  of  her  will  by  taking 
every  outward  precaution  against  the  occurrence  of  a  temp- 
tation. Her  mother  was  now  her  constant  companion,  hav- 
ing shut  up  her  little  dwelling  and  come  to  reside  in  Orchard 
Sti'eet ;  and  Janet  gave  all  dangerous  keys  into  her  keeping, 
entreating  her  to  lock  them  away  in  some  secret  place. 
Whenever  the  too  well  known  depression  and  craving  threat- 
ened her,  she  would  seek  a  refuge  in  what  had  always  been 
her  purest  enjoyment — in  visiting  one  of  her  poor  neighbors, 
in  carrying  some  food  or  comfort  to  a  sick-bed,  in  cheering 
with  her  smile  some  of  the  familiar  dwellings  up  the  dingy 
back-lanes.  But  the  great  source  of  courage,  the  great  help 
to  perseverance,  was  the  sense  that  she  had  a  friend  and 
teacher  in  Mr.  Tryan :  she  could  confess  her  difficulties  to 
him;  she  knew  he  prayed  for  her;  she  had  always  before 
her  the  prospect  of  soon  seeing  him,  and  hearing  words  of  ad- 
monition and  comfort,  that  came  to  her  charged  with  a  divine 
power  such  as  she  had  never  found  in  human  words  before. 

So  the  time  passed,  till  it  was  far  on  in  May,  nearly  a 
month  after  her  husband's  death,  when,  as  she  and  her  moth- 
er were  seated  peacefully  at  breakfast  in  the  dining-room, 
looking  through  the  open  window  at  the  old-fashioned  gar- 
den, where  the  grassplot  was  now  whitened  with  apple-blos- 
soms, a  letter  was  brought  in  for  Mrs.  Raynor. 

"  Why,  there's  the  Thurston  post-mark  on  it,"  she  said.  "It 
must  be  about  your  aunt  Anna.  Ah,  so  it  is,  poor  thing !  she's 
been  taken  worse  this  last  day  or  two,  and  has  asked  them  to 
send  for  me.  That  dropsy  is  carrying  her  off  at  last,  I  dare- 
say. Poor  thing !  it  will  be  a  happy  release.  I  must  go, 
my  dear — she's  your  father's  last  sister — though  I'm  sorry  to 
leave  you.  However,  perhaps  I  shall  not  have  to  stay  more 
than  a  night  or  two." 

Janet  looked  distressed  as  she  said, "  Yes,  you  must  go, 
mother.  But  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without  you.  I 
think  I  shall  run  in  to  Mrs.  Pettifer,  and  ask  her  to  come  and 
stay  with  me  while  you're  away.  I'm  sure  she  will." 

At  twelve  o'clock,  Janet,  having  seen  her  mother  in  the 
coach  that  was  to  carry  her  to  Thurston,  called,  on  her 
way  back,  at  Mrs.  Pettifer's,  but  found,  to  her  great  dis- 
appointment, that  her  old  friend  was  gone  out  for  the  day. 
So  she  wrote  on  a  leaf  of  her  pocket-book  an  urgent  request 
that  Mrs.  Pettifer  would  come  and  stay  with  her  while  her 
mother  was  away;  and,  desiring  the  servant-girl  to  give  it 
to  her  mistress  as  soon  as  she  came  home,  walked  on  to  the 


320  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

Vicarage  to  sit  with  Mrs.  Crewe,  thinking  to  relieve  in  thia 
way  the  feeling  of  desolateness  and  undefined  fear  that  was 
taking  possession  of  her  on  being  left  alone  for  the  first  time 
since  that  great  crisis  in  her  life.  And  Mrs.  Crewe,  too,  was 
not  at  Lome  ! 

Janet,  with  a  sense  of  discouragement  for  which  she  re- 
buked herself  as  childish,  walked  sadly  home  again ;  and 
when  she  entered  the  vacant  dining-room,  she  could  not  help 
bursting  into  tears.  It  is  such  vague  undefinable  states  of 
susceptibility  as  this — states  of  excitement  or  depression, 
half  mental,  half  physical — that  determine  many  a  tragedy 
in  women's  lives.  Janet  could  scarcely  eat  any  thing  at  her 
solitary  dinner ;  she  tried  to  fix  her  attention  on  a  book  in 
vain ;  she  walked  about  the  garden,  and  felt  the  very  sun- 
shine melancholy. 

Between  four  and  five  o'clock,  old  Mr.  Pittman  called,  and 
joined  her  in  the  garden,  where  she  had  been  sitting  for  some 
time  under  one  of  the  great  apple-trees,  thinking  how  Robert, 
in  his  best  moods,  used  to  take  little  Mamsey  to  look  at  the 
cucumbers,  or  to  see  the  Alderney  cow  with  its  calf  in  the 
paddock.  The  tears  and  sobs  had  come  again  at  these 
thoughts ;  and  when  Mr.  Pittman  approached  her,  she  was 
feeling  languid  and  exhausted.  But  the  old  gentleman's  sight 
and  sensibility  wei'e  obtuse,  and,  to  Janet's  satisfaction,  he 
showed  no  consciousness  that  she  was  in  grief. 

"  I  have  a  task  to  impose  upon  you,  Mrs.  Dempster,"  he 
said,  with  a  certain  toothless  pomposity  habitual  to  him :  "  I 
want  you  to  look  over  those  letters  again  in  Dempster's  bu- 
reau, and  see  if  you  can  find  one  from  Poole  about  the  mort- 
gage on  those  houses  at  Dingley.  It  will  be  worth  twenty 
pounds,  if  you  can  find  it ;  and  I  don't  know  where  it  can  be, 
if  it  isn't  among  those  letters  in  the  bureau.  I've  looked 
everywhere  at  the  office  for  it.  I'm  going  home  now,  but  I'll 
call  again  to-morrow,  if  you'll  be  good  enough  to  look  in  the 
mean  time." 

Janet  said  she  would  look  directly,  and  turned  with  Mr. 
Pittman  into  the  house.  But  the  search  would  take  her  some 
time,  so  he  bade  her  good-bye,  and  she  went  at  once  to  a  bu- 
reau which  stood  in  a  small  back-room,  where  Dempster  used 
sometimes  to  write  letters  and  receive  people  who  came  on 
business  out  of  office-hours.  She  had  looked  through  the 
contents  of  the  bureau  more  than  once ;  but  to-day  on  remov- 
ing the  last  bundle  of  letters  from  one  of  the  compartments, 
she  saw  what  she  had  never  seen  before,  a  small  nick  in  the 
wood,  made  in  the  shape  of  a  thumb-nail,  evidently  intended 
as  a  means  of  pushing  aside  the  movable  back  of  the  com- 


JANET'S  KEPENTANCE.  321 

partment.  In  her  examination  hitherto  she  had  not  found 
such  a  letter  as  Mr.  Pittman  had  described — perhaps  there 
might  be  more  letters  behind  this  slide.  She  pushed  it  back 
at  once  and  saw — no  letters,  but  a  small  spirit-decanter,  half 
full  of  pale  brandy,  Dempster's  habitual  drink. 

An  impetuous  desire  shook  Janet  through  all  her  mem- 
bers ;  it  seemed  to  master  her  with  the  inevitable  force  of 
strong  fumes  that  flood  our  senses  before  we  are  aware.  Her 
hand  was  on  the  decanter;  pale  and  excited, she  was  lifting 
it  out  of  its  niche,  when,  with  a  start  and  a  shudder,  she  dash- 
ed it  to  the  ground,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  the  odor 
of  the  spirit.  Without  staying  to  shut  up  the  bureau,  she 
rushed  out  of  the  room,  snatched  up  her  bonnet  and  mantle 
which  lay  in  the  dining-room,  and  hurried  out  of  the  house. 

Where  should  she  go?  In  what  place  would  this  demon 
that  had  re-entered  her  be  scared  back  again?  She  walked 
rapidly  along  the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  church.  She 
was  soon  at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard ;  she  passed  through 
it,  and  made  her  way  across  the  graves  to  a  spot  she  knew — • 
a  spot  where  the  turf  had  been  stirred  not  long  before,  where 
a  tomb  was  to  be  erected  soon.  It  was  very  near  the  church 
wall,  on  the  side  which  now  lay  in  deep  shadow,  quite  shut 
out  from  the  rays  of  the  western  sun  by  a  projecting  buttress. 

Janet  sat  down  on  the  ground.  It  was  a  sombre  spot.  A 
thick  hedge,  surmounted  by  elm-trees,  was  in  front  of  her;  a 
projecting  buttress  on  each  side.  But  she  wanted  to  shut 
out  even  these  objects.  Her  thick  crape  veil  was  down  ;  but 
she  closed  her  eyes  behind  it,  and  pressed  her  hands  upon 
them.  She  wanted  to  summon  up  the  vision  of  the  past ;  she 
wanted  to  lash  the  demon  out  of  her  soul  with  the  stinging 
memories  of  the  bygone  misery  ;  she  wanted  to  renew  the  old 
horror  and  the  old  anguish,  that  she  might  throw  herself  with 
the  more  desperate  clinging  energy  at  the  foot  of  the  cross, 
where  the  Divine  Sufferer  would  impart  divine  strength.  She 
tried  to  recall  those  first  bitter  moments  of  shame,  which  were 
like  the  shuddering  discovery  of  the  leper  that  the  dire  taint 
is  upon  him ;  the  deeper  and  deeper  lapse ;  the  on-coming  of 
settled  despair ;  the  awful  moments  by  the  bedside  of  her 
self-maddened  husband.  And  then  she  tried  to  live  through, 
with  a  remembrance  made  more  vivid  by  that  contrast,  the 
blessed  hours  of  hope  and  joy  and  peace  that  had  come  to  her 
of  late,  since  her  whole  soul  had  been  bent  towards  the  attain- 
ment of  purity  and  holiness. 

But  now,  when  the  paroxysm  of  temptation  was  past, 
dread  and  despondency  began  to  thrust  themselves,  like  cold 
heavy  mists,  between  her  and  the  heaven  to  which  she  want- 

14* 


322  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

ed  to  look  for  light  and  guidance.  The  temptation  would 
come  again — that  rush  of  desire  might  overmaster  her  the 
next  time — she  would  slip  back-  again  into  that  deep  slimy 
pit  from  which  she  had  been  once  rescued,  and  there  might 
be  no  deliverance  for  her  more.  Her  prayers  did  not  help 
her,  for  fear  predominated  over  trust ;  she  had  no  confidence 
that  the  aid  she  sought  would  be  given ;  the  idea  of  her  fu- 
ture fall  had  grasped  her  mind  too  strongly.  Alone,  in  this 
way,  she  was  powerless.  If  she  could  see  Mr.  Try  an,  if  she 
could  confess  all  to  him,  she  might  gather  hope  again.  Sho 
must  see  him ;  she  must  go  to  him. 

Janet  rose  from  the  ground,  and  walked  away  with  a  quick, 
resolved  step.  She  had  been  seated  there  a  long  while,  and 
the  sun  had  already  sunk.  It  was  late  for  her  to  walk  to 
Paddiford  and  go  to  Mr.  Tryan's,  where  she  had  never  called 
before ;  but  there  was  no  other  way  of  seeing  him  that  even- 
ing, and  she  could  not  hesitate  about  it.  She  walked  towards 
a  footpath  through  the  fields,  which  would  take  her  to  Paddi- 
ford without  obliging  her  to  go  through  the  town.  The  way 
was  rather  long,  but  she  preferred  it,  because  it  left  less  proba- 
bility of  her  meeting  acquaintances,  and  she  shrank  from  hav- 
ing to  speak  to  any  one. 

The  evening  red  had  nearly  faded  by  the  time  Janet 
knocked  at  Mrs.  WagstafTs  door.  The  good  woman  looked 
surprised  to  see  her  at  that  hour ;  but  Janet's  mourning 
weeds  and  the  painful  agitation  of  her  face  quickly  brought 
the  second  thought,  that  some  urgent  trouble  had  sent  her 
there. 

"  Mr.  Trvan's  just  come  in,"  she  said.  "  If  you'll  step  into 
the  parlor,  I'll  go  up  and  tell  him  you're  here.  He  seemed 
very  tired  and  poorly." 

At  another  time  Janet  would  have  felt  distress  at  the  idea 
that  she  was  disturbing  Mr.  Tryan  when  he  required  rest ; 
but  now  her  need  was  too  great  for  that :  she  could  feel  noth- 
ing but  a  sense  of  coming  relief,  when  she  heard  his  step  on 
the  stair  and  saw  him  enter  the  room. 

He  went  towards  her  with  a  look  of  anxiety,  and  said,  "I 
fear  something  is  the  matter.  I  fear  you  are  in  trouble." 

Then  poor  Janet  poured  forth  her  sad  tale  of  temptation  and 
despondency ;  and  even  while  she  was  confessing  she  felt  half 
her  burthen  removed.  The  act  of  confiding  in  human  sympa- 
thy, the  consciousness  that  a  fellow-being  was  listening  to  her 
with  patient  pity,  prepared  her  soul  for  that  stronger  leap  by 
which  faith  grasps  the  idea  of  the  Divine  sympathy.  When 
Mr.  Tryan  spoke  words  of  consolation  and  encouragement, 
she  could  now  believe  the  message  of  mercy ;  the  water-floods 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  323 

that  had  threatened  to  overwhelm  her  rolled  back  again,  and 
life  once  more  spread  its  heaven-covered  space  before  her. 
She  had  been  unable  to  pray  alone  ;  but  now  his  prayer  bore 
her  own  soul  along  with  it,  as  the  broad  tongue  of  flame  car- 
ries upwards  in  its  vigorous  leap  the  little  flickering  fire  that 
could  hardly  keep  alight  by  itself. 

But  Mr.  Try  an  was  anxious  that  Janet  should  not  linger 
out  at  this  late  hour.  When  he  saw  that  she  was  calmed,  he 
said, "  I  will  walk  home  with  you  now ;  we  can  talk  on  the 
way."  But  Janet's  mind  was  now  sufficiently  at  liberty  for 
her  to  notice  the  signs  of  feverish  weariness  in  his  appearance, 
and  she  would  not  hear  of  causing  him  any  further  fatigue. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  earnestly, "  you  will  pain  me  very  much 
— indeed  you  Avill,  by  going  out  again  to-night  on  my  account. 
There  is  no  real  reason  why  I  should  not  go  alone."  And 
when  he  persisted,  fearing  that  for  her  to  be  seen  out  so  late 
alone  might  excite  remark,  she  said  imploringly,  with  a  half 
sob  in  her  voice, "What  should  I — what  would  others  like 
me  do,  if  you  went  from  us  ?  Why  will  you  not  think  more 
of  that,  and  take  care  of  yourself  ?" 

He  had  often  had  that  appeal  made  to  him  before,  but  to- 
night— from  Janet's  lips — it  seemed  to  have  a  new  force  for 
him,  and  he  gave  way.  At  first,  indeed,  he  only  did  so  on 
condition  that  she  would  let  Mrs.  Wagstaff  go  with  her ;  but 
Janet  had  determined  to  walk  home  alone.  She  preferred 
solitude ;  she  wished  not  to  have  her  present  feelings  distract- 
ed by  any  conversation. 

So  she  went  out  into  the  dewy  starlight ;  and  as  Mr.  Try- 
an  turned  away  from  her,  he  felt  a  stronger  wish  than  ever 
that  his  fragile  life  might  last  out  for  him  to  see  Janet's  res- 
toration thoroughly  established — to  see  her  no  longer  fleeing, 
struggling,  clinging  up  the  steep  sides  of  a  precipice  whence 
she  might  be  any  moment  hurled  back  into  the  depths  of  de- 
spair, but  walking  firmly  on  the  level  ground  of  habit.  He 
inwardly  resolved  that  nothing  but  a  peremptory  duty  should 
ever  take  him  from  Milby — that  he  would  not  cease  to  watch 
over  her  until  life  forsook  him. 

Janet  walked  on  quickly  till  she  turned  into  the  fields ; 
then  she  slackened  her  pace  a  little,  enjoying  the  sense  of  soli- 
tude which  a  few  hours  before  had  been  intolerable  to  her. 
The  Divine  Presence  did  not  now  seem  far  off,  where  she  had 
not  wings  to  reach  it ;  prayer  itself  seemed  superfluous  in 
those  moments  of  calm  trust.  The  temptation  which  had 
so  lately  made  her  shudder  before  the  possibilities  of  the  fu- 
ture, was  now  a  source  of  confidence ;  for  had  she  not  been 
delivered  from  it  ?  Had  not  rescue  come  in  the  extremity  of 


324  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

danger?  Yes;  Infinite  Love  was  caring  for  her.  She  felt 
like  a  little  child  whose  hand  is  firmly  grasped  by  its  father, 
as  its  frail  limbs  make  their  way  over  the  rough  ground ;  if  it 
should  stumble,  the  father  will  not  let  it  go. 

That  walk  in  the  dewy  starlight  remained  forever  in  Janet's 
memory  as  one  of  those  baptismal  epochs,  when  the  soul, 
dipped  in  the  sacred  waters  of  joy  and  peace,  rises  from  them 
with  new  energies,  with  more  unalterable  longings. 

When  she  reached  home  she  found  Mrs.  Pettifer  there,  anx- 
ious for  her  return.  After  thanking  her  for  coming,  Janet 
only  said, "  I  have  been  to  Mr.  Tryan's ;  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  him  ;"  and  then  remembering  how  she  had  left  the  bureau 
and  papers,  she  went  into  the  back-room,  where,  apparently, 
no  one  had  been  since  she  quitted  it ;  for  there  lay  the  frag- 
ments of  glass,  and  the  room  was  still  full  of  the  hateful  odor. 
How  feeble  and  miserable  the  temptation  seemed  to  her  at 
this  moment !  She  rang  for  Kitty  to  come  and  pick  up  the 
fragments  and  rub  the  floor,  while  she  herself  replaced  the 
papers  and  locked  up  the  bureau. 

The  next  morning,  when  seated  at  breakfast  with  Mrs.  Pet- 
tifer, Janet  said, 

"  What  a  dreary,  unhealthy-looking  place  that  is  where  Mr. 
Tryan  lives  !  I'm  sure  it  must  be  very  bad  for  him  to  live 
there.  Do  you  know,  all  this  morning,  since  I've  been  awake, 
I've  been  turning  over  a  little  plan  in  my  mind.  I  think 
it  a  charming  one — all  the  more,  because  you  are  concerned 
in  it." 

"  Why,  what  can  that  be  ?" 

"  You  know  that  house  on  the  Redhill  road  they  call  Holly 
Mount ;  it  is  shut  up  now.  That  is  Robert's  house  ;  at  least, 
it  is  mine  now,  and  it  stands  on  one  of  the  healthiest  spots 
about  here.  Now,  I've  been  settling  in  my  own  mind,  that 
if  a  dear  good  woman  of  my  acquaintance,  who  knows  how 
to  make  a  home  as  comfortable  and  cosy  as  a  bird's  nest, 
were  to  take  up  her  abode  there,  and  have  Mr.  Tryan  as  a 
lodger,  she  Avould  be  doing  one  of  the  most  useful  deeds  in 
all  her  useful  life." 

"  You've  such  a  way  of  wrapping  up  things  in  pretty  words. 
You  must  speak  plainer." 

"  In  plain  words,  then,  I  should  like  to  settle  you  at  Holly 
Mount.  You  would  not  have  to  pay  any  more  rent  than  wlu'i  e 
you  are,  and  it  would  be  twenty  times  pleasanter  for  you  than 
living  up  that  passage  where  you  see  nothing  but  a  brick  wall. 
And  then,  as  it  is  not  far  from  Paddiford,  I  think  Mr.  Tryan 
might  be  persuaded  to  lodge  with  you,  instead  of  in  that 
musty  house,  among  dead  cabbages  and  smoky  cottages.  I 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  325 

know  you  would  like  to  have  him  live  with  you,  and  you 
would  be  such  a  mother  to  him." 

"  To  be  sure  I  should  like  it ;  it  would  be  the  finest  thing 
in  the  world  for  me.  But  there'll  be  furniture  wanted.  My 
little  bit  of  furniture  won't  fill  that  house." 

"  Oh,  I  can  put  some  in  out  of  this  house  ;  it  is  too  full ; 
and  we  can  buy  the  rest.  They  tell  me  I'm  to  have  more 
money  than  I  shall  know  what  to  do  with." 

"I'm  almost  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  doubtfully,  "Mr. 
Tryan  will  hardly  be  persuaded.  He's  been  talked  to  so  much 
about  leaving  that  place  ;  and  he  always  said  he  must  stay 
there — he  must  be  among  the  people,  and  there  was  no  other 
place  for  him  in  Paddiford.  It  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  see 
him  getting  thinner  and  thinner,  and  I've  noticed  him  quite 
short  o'  breath  sometimes.  Mrs.  Linnet  will  have  it,  Mrs. 
WagstafF  half  poisons  him  with  bad  cooking.  I  don't  know 
about  that,  but  he  can't  have  many  comforts.  I  expect  he'll 
break  down  all  of  a  sudden  some  day,  and  never  be  able  to 
preach  any  more." 

"  Well,  I  shall  try  my  skill  with  him  by-and-by.  I  shall 
be  very  cunning,  and  say  nothing  to  him  till  all  is  ready.  You 
and  I  and  mother,  when  she  comes  home,  will  set  to  work  di- 
rectly and  get  the  house  in  order,  and  then  we'll  get  you  snug- 
ly settled  in  it.  I  shall  see  Mr.  Pittman  to-day,  and  I  will 
tell  him  what  I  mean  to  do.  I  shall  say  I  wish  to  have  you 
for  a  tenant.  Every  body  knows  I'm  very  fond  of  that  naughty 
person,  Mrs.  Pettifer ;  so  it  will  seem  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world.  And  then  I  shall  by-and-by  point  out  to  Mr. 
Tryan  that  he  will  be  doing  you  a  service  as  well  as  himself 
by  taking  up  his  abode,  with  you.  I  think  I  can  prevail  upon 
him ;  for  last  night,  when  he  was  quite  bent  on  coming  out 
into  the  night  air,  I  persuaded  him  to  give  it  up." 

"  Well,  I  only  hope  you  may,  my  dear.  I  don't  desire  any 
thing  better  than  to  do  something  towards  prolonging  Mr. 
Tryan's  life,  for  I've  sad  fears  about  him." 

"  Don't  speak  of  them — I  can't  bear  to  think  of  them.  We 
will  only  think  about  getting  the  house  ready.  We  shall  be 
as  busy  as  bees.  How  we  shall  want  mother's  clever  fingers ! 
I  know  the  room  up  stairs  that  will  just  do  for  Mr.  Tryan's 
study.  There  shall  be  no  seats  in  it  except  a  very  easy  chair 
and  a  very  easy  sofa,  so  that  he  shall  be  obliged  to  rest  him- 
self when  he  comes  home." 


326  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

THAT  was  the  last  terrible  crisis  of  temptation  Janet  had 
to  pass  through.  The  good-will  of  her  neighbors,  the  helpful 
sympathy  of  the  friends  who  shared  her  religious  feelings,  the 
occupations  suggested  to  her  by  Mr.  Tryan,  concurred  with  her 
strong  spontaneous  impulses  towards  works  of  love  and  mercy, 
to  fill  up  her  days  with  quiet  social  intercourse_and  charitable 
exertion.  BestcTeT,  her  constitution,  naturally  healthy  and 
strong,  was  every  week  tending,  with  the  gathering  force  of 
habit,  to  recover  its  equipoise,  and  set  her  free  from  those 
physical  solicitations  which  the  smallest  habitual  vice  always 
leaves  behind  it.  The  prisoner  feels  where  the  iron  has  galled 
him,  long  after  his  fetters  have  been  loosed. 

There  were  always  neighborly  visits  to  be  paid  and  re- 
ceived;  and  as  the  months  wore  on,  increasing  familiarity 
with  Janet's  present  self  began  to  efface,  even  from  minds  as 
rigid  as  Mrs.  Phipps's,  the  unpleasant  impressions  that  had 
been  left  by  recent  years.  Janet  was  recovering  the  popu- 
larity which  her  beauty  and  sweetness  of  nature  had  won  for 
her  when  she  was  a  girl ;  and  popularity,  as  every  one  knows, 
is  the  most  complex  and  self-multiplying  of  echoes.  Even 
anti-Tryanite  prejudice  could  not  resist  the  fact  that  Janet 
Dempster  was  a  changed  woman — changed  as  the  dusty, 
bruised,  and  sun-withered  plant  is  changed  when  the  soft  rains 
of  heaven  have  fallen  on  it — and  that  this  change  was  due  to 
Mr.  Tryan's  influence.  The  last  lingering  sneers  against  the 
Evangelical  curate  began  to  die  out ;  and  though  much  of  the 
feeling  that  had  prompted  them  remained  behind,  there  was 
an  intimidating  consciousness  that  the  expression  of  such  feel- 
ing would  not  be  effective — jokes  of  that  sort  had  ceased  to 
tickle  the  Milby  mind.  Even  Mr.  Budd  and  Mr.  Tomlinson, 
when  they  saw  Mr.  Tryan  passing  pale  and  worn  along  the 
street,  had  a  secret  sense  that  this  man  was  somehow  not  that 
very  natural  and  comprehensible  thing,  a  humbug — that,  in 
fact,  it  was  impossible  to  explain  him  from  the  stomach-and- 
pocket  point  of  view.  Twist  and  stretch  their  theory  as  they 
might,  it  would  not  fit  Mr.  Tryan ;  and  so,  with  that  remarkable 
resemblance  as  to  mental  processes  which  may  frequently  be 
observed  to  exist  between  plain  men  and  philosophers,  they 
concluded  that  the  less  they  said  about  him  the  better. 

Among  all  Janet's  neighborly  pleasures,  there  was  noth- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  327 

ing  she  liked  better  than  to  take  an  early  tea  at  the  White 
House,  and  to  stroll  with  Mr.  Jerome  round  the  old-fashioned 
garden  and  orchard.  There  was  endless  matter  for  talk  be- 
tween her  and  the  good  old  man,  for  Janet  had  that  genuine 
delight  in  human  fellowship  which  gives  an  interest  to  all 
personal  details  that  come  warm  from  truthful  lips  ;  and,  be- 
sides, they  had  a  common  interest  in  good-natured  plans  for 
helping  their  poorer  neighbors.  One  great  object  of  Mr.  Je- 
rome's charities  was,  as  he  often  said,  "  to  keep  industrious 
men  an'  women  off  the  parish.  I'd  rether  given  ten  shillin' 
an'  help  a  man  to  stand  on  his  own  legs,  nor  pay  half-a-crown 
to  buy  him  a  parish  crutch ;  it's  the  ruination  on  him  if  he 
once  goes  to  the  parish.  I've  see'd  many  a  timo,  if  you  help 
a  man  wi'  a  present  in  a  neeborly  way,  it  sweetens  his  blood 
— he  thinks  it  kind  on  you ;  but  the  parish  shillins  turn  it 
sour — he  niver  thinks  'em  enough.  In  illustration  of  this 
opinion  Mr.  Jerome  had  a  large  store  of  details  about  such 
persons  as  Jim  Hardy,  the  coal-carrier,  "  as  lost  his  hoss,'r 
and  Sally  Butts,  "  as  hed  to  sell  her  mangle,  though  she  was 
as  decent  a  woman  as  need  to  be ;"  to  the  hearing  of  which 
details  Janet  seriously  inclined;  and  you  would  hardly  de- 
sire to  see  a  prettier  picture  than  the  kind-faced,  white-haired 
old  man  telling  these  fragments  of  his  simple  experience  as  he 
walked,  with  shoulders  slightly  bent,  among  the  moss-roses 
and  espalier  apple-trees,  while  Janet  in  her  widow's  cap,  her 
dark  eyes  bright  with  interest,  went  listening  by  his  side,  and 
little  Lizzie,  with  her  nankin  bonnet  hanging  down  her  back, 
toddled  on  before  them.  Mrs.  Jerome  usually  declined  these 
lingering  strolls,  and  often  observed,  "  I  niver  see  the  like  to 
Mr.  Jerome  when  he's  got  Mrs.  Dempster  to  talk  to ;  it  sinni- 
fies  nothin'  to  him  whether  we've  tea  at  four  or  at  five  o'clock ; 
he'd  go  on  till  six,  if  you'd  let  him  alone — he's  like  off  his 
head."  However,  Mrs.  Jerome  herself  could  not  deny  that 
Janet  was  a  very  pretty-spoken  woman  :  "  She  aly's  says  she 
niver  gets  sich  pikelets  as  mine  nowhere ;  I  know  that  very 
well — other  folks  buy  'em  at  shops — thick  unwholesome 
things,  you  might  as  well  eat  a  sponge." 

The  sight  of  little  Lizzie  often  stirred  in  Janet's  mind  a 
sense  of  the  childlessness  which  had  made  a  fatal  blank  in 
her  life.  She  had  fleeting  thoughts  that  perhaps  among  her 
husband's  distant  relatives  there  might  be  some  children 
whom  she  could  help  to  bring  up,  some  little  girl  whom  she 
might  adopt ;  and  she  promised  herself  one  day  or  other  to 
hunt  out  a  second  cousin  of  his — a  married  woman — of  whom 
he  had  lost  sight  for  many  years. 

But  at  present  her  hands  and  heart  were  too  full  for  he* 


328  SCENES    OP   CLERICAL,   L.IFE. 

to  carry  out  that  scheme.  To  her  great  disappointment,  her 
project  of  settling  Mrs.  Pettifer  at  Holly  Mount  had  been 
delayed  by  the  discovery  that  some  repairs  were  necessary 
in  order  to  make  the  house  habitable,  and  it  was  not  till 
September  had  set  in  that  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
her  old  friend  comfortably  installed,  and  the  rooms  destined 
for  Mr.  Tryan  looking  pretty  and  cosy  to  her  heart's  content. 
She  had  taken  several  of  his  chief  friends  into  her  confidence, 
and  they  were  warmly  wishing  success  to  her  plan  for  induc- 
ing him  to  quit  poor  Mrs.  Wagstaff's  dingy  house  and  dubious 
cookery.  That  he  should  consent  to  some  such  change  was 
becoming  more  and  more  a  matter  of  anxiety  to  his  hearers  ; 
for  though  no  more  decided  symptoms  were  yet  observable 
in  him  than  increasing  emaciation,  a  dry  hacking  cough,  and 
an  occasional  shortness  of  breath,  it  was  felt  that  the  fulfill- 
ment of  Mr.  Pratt's  prediction  could  not  long  be  deferred, 
and  that  this  obstinate  persistence  in  labor  and  self-disregard 
must  soon  be  peremptorily  cut  short  by  a  total  failure  of 
strength.  Any  hopes  that  the  influence  of  Mr.  Tryan's  father 
and  sister  would  prevail  on  him  to  change  his  mode  of  life — 
that  they  would  perhaps  come  to  live  with  him,  or  that  his 
sister  at  least  might  come  to  see  him,  and  that  the  arguments 
which  had  failed  from  other  lips  might  be  more  persuasive 
from  hers — were  now  quite  dissipated.  His  father  had  lately 
had  an  attack  of  paralysis,  and  could  not  spare  his  only 
daughter's  tendance.  On  Mr.  Tryan's  return  from  a  visit  to 
his  father,  Miss  Linnet  was  very  anxious  to  know  whether 
his  sister  had  not  urged  him  to  try  a  change  of  air.  From 
his  answers  she  gathered  that  Miss  Tryan  wished  him  to  give 
up  his  curacy  and  travel,  or  at  least  go  to  the  south  Devon- 
shire coast. 

"  And  why  will  you  not  do  so  ?"  Miss  Linnet  said  ;  "  you 
might  come  back  to  us  well  and  strong,  and  have  many  years 
of  usefulness  before  you." 

"  No,"  he  answered  quietly,  "  I  think  people  attach  more 
importance  to  such  measures  than  is  warranted.  I  don't  see 
any  good  end  that  is  to  be  served  by  going  to  die  at  Nice,  in- 
stead of  dying  amongst  one's  friends  and  one's  work.  I  can 
not  leave  Milby — at  least  I  will  not  leave  it  voluntarily." 

But  though  he  remained  immovable  on  this  point,  he  had 
been  compelled  to  give  up  his  afternoon  service  on  the  Sun- 
day, and  to  accept  Mr.  Parry's  offer  of  aid  in  the  evening  serv- 
ice, as  well  as  to  curtail  his  weekday  labors ;  and  he  had 
even  written  to  Mr.  Prendergast  to  request  that  he  would  ap- 
point another  curate  to  the  Paddiford  district,  on  the  under- 
standing that  the  new  curate  should  receive  the  salary,  but 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  329 

that  Mr.  Tryan  should  co-operate  with  him  as  long  as  he  was 
able.  The  hopefulness  which  is  an  almost  constant  attend- 
ant on  consumption,  had  not  the  effect  of  deceiving  him  as 
to  the  nature  of  his  malady,  or  of  making  him  look  forward 
to  ultimate  recovery.  He  believed  himself  to  be  consump- 
tive, and  he  had  not  yet  felt  any  desire  to  escape  the  early 
death  which  he  had  for  some  time  contemplated  as  proba- 
ble. Even  diseased  hopes  will  take  their  direction  from  the 
strong  habitual  bias  of  the  mind,  and  to  Mr.  Tryan  death 
had  for  years  seemed  nothing  else  than  the  laying  down  of  a 
burthen,  under  which  he  sometimes  felt  himself  fainting.  He 
was  only  sanguine  about  his  powers  of  work :  he  flattered 
himself  that  what  he  was  unable  to  do  one  week  he  should 
be  equal  to  the  next,  and  he  would  not  admit  that  in  desist- 
ing from  any  part  of  his  labor  he  was  renouncing  it  perma- 
nently. He  had  lately  delighted  Mr.  Jerome  by  accepting 
his  long-proffered  loan  of  the  "  little  chacenut  hoss  ;"  and  he 
found  so  much  benefit  from  substituting  constant  riding  ex- 
ercise for  walking,  that  he  began  to  think  he  should  soon  bo 
able  to  resume  some  of  the  work  he  had  dropped. 

That  was  a  happy  afternoon  for  Janet,  when,  after  exert- 
ing herself  busily  for  a  week  with  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Petti- 
fer,  she  saw  Holly  Mount  looking  orderly  and  comfortable 
from  attic  to  cellar.  It  was  an  old  red-brick  house,  with  two 
gables  in  front,  and  two  clipped  holly-trees  flanking  the  gar- 
den-gate ;  a  simple,  homely-looking  place,  that  quiet  people 
might  easily  get  fond  of;  and  now  it  was  scoured  and  polish- 
ed and  carpeted  and  furnished  so  as  to  look  really  snug  with- 
in. When  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done,  Janet  delight- 
ed herself  with  contemplating  Mr.  Tryan's  study,  first  sitting 
down  in  the  easy-chair,  and  then  lying  for  a  moment  on  the 
sofa,  that  she  might  have  a  keener  sense  of  the  repose  he 
would  get  from  those  well-stuffed  articles  of  furniture,  which 
she  had  gone  to  Rotherby  on  purpose  to  choose. 

"  Now,  mother,"  she  said,  when  she  had  finished  her  survey, 
"  you  have  done  your  work  as  well  as  any  fairy-mother  or 
god-mother  that  ever  turned  a  pumpkin  into  a  coach  and 
horses.  You  stay  and  have  tea  cosily  with  Mrs.  Pettifer 
while  I  go  to  Mrs.  Linnet's.  I  want  to  tell  Mary  and  Rebec- 
ca the  good  news,  that  I've  got  the  exciseman  to -promise  that 
he  will  take  Mrs.  WagstafPs  lodgings  when  Mr.  Tryan  leaves. 
They'll  be  so  pleased  to  hear  it,  because  they  thought  he 
would  make  her  poverty  an  objection  to  his  leaving  her." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Raynor,  whose  face,  al- 
ways calm,  was  now  a  happy  one,  "  have  a  cup  of  tea  with 
us  first.  You'll  perhaps  miss  Mrs.  Linnet's  tea-time." 


330  SCENES    OF   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

"  No,  I  feel  too  excited  to  take  tea  yet.  I'm  like  a  child 
with  a  new  baby-house.  Walking  in  the  air  will  do  me 
good." 

So  she  set  out.  Holly..  Mount  was  about  a  mile  from  that 
outskirt  of  Pacldiford  Common  where  Mrs.  Linnet's  house 
stood  nestled  among  its  laburnums,  lilacs,  and  syringas. 
Janet's  way  thither  lay  for  a  little  while  along  the  high-road, 
and  then  led  her  into  a  deep-rutted  lane,  which  wound 
through  a  flat  tract  of  meadow  and  pasture,  while  in  front 
lay  smoky  Paddiford,  and  away  to  the  left  the  mother-town 
of  Milby.  There  was  no  line  of  silvery  willows  marking  the 
course  of  a  stream — no  group  of  Scotch  firs  with  their  trunks 
reddening  in  the  level  sunbeams — nothing  to  break  the  flow^ 
erless  monotony  of  grass  and  hedgerow  but  an  occasional  oak 
or  elm,  and  a  few  cows  sprinkled  here  and  there.  A  very 
commonplace  scene,  indeed.  But  what  scene  was  ever  com- 
monplace in  the  descending  sunlight,  when  color  has  awaken* 
ed  from  its  noonday  sleep,  and  the  long  shadows  awe  us  like 
a  disclosed  presence  ?  Above  all,  what  scene  is  commonplace 
to  the  eye  that  is  filled  with  serene  gladness,  and  brightens 
all  things  with  its  own  joy  ? 

And  Janet  just  now  was  very  happy.  As  she  walked 
along  the  rough  lane  with  a  buoyant  step,  a  half  smile  of  inno- 
cent, kindly  triumph  played  about  her  mouth.  She  was  de- 
lighting beforehand  in  the  anticipated  success  of  her  persua- 
sive power,  and  for  the  time  her  painful  anxiety  about  Mr. 
Tryan's  health  wras  thrown  into  abeyance.  But  she  had  not 
gone  far  along  the  lane  before  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse 
advancing  at  a  walking  pace  behind  her.  Without  looking 
back,  she  turned  aside  to  make  way  for  it  between  the  ruts, 
and  did  not  notice  that  for  a  moment  it  had  stopped,  and 
had  then  come  on  with  a  slightly  quickened  pace.  In  less 
than  a  minute  she  heard  a  well-known  voice  say,  "  Mrs.  Demp- 
ster ;"  and,  turning,  saw  Mr.  Tryan  close  to  her,  holding  his 
horse  by  the  bridle.  It  seemed  very  natural  to  her  that  he 
should  be  there.  Her  mind  was  so  full  of  his  presence  at 
that  moment,  that  the  actual  sight  of  him  was  only  like  a 
more  vivid  thought,  and  she  behaved,  as  we  ai*e  apt  to  do 
when  feeling  obliges  us  to  be  genuine,  with  a  total  forgetful- 
ness  of  polite  forms.  She  only  looked  at  him  with  a  slight 
deepening  of  the  smile  that  was  already  on  her  face.  He  said 
gently, "  Take  my  arm  ;"  and  they  walked  on  a  little  way  in 
silence. 

It  was  he  who  broke  it.  "  You  are  going  to  Paddiford, 
I  suppose  ?" 

The  question  recalled  Janet  to  the  consciousness  that  this 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  331 

was  an  unexpected  opportunity  for  beginning  her  work  of 
persuasion,  and  that  she  was  stupidly  neglecting  it. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  was  going  to  Mrs.  Linnet's.  I  knew 
Miss  Linnet  would  like  to  hear  that  our  friend  Mrs.  Pettifer 
is  quite  settled  now  in  her  new  house.  She  is  as  fond  of  Mrs. 
Pettifer  as  I  am — almost ;  I  won't  admit  that  any  one  loves 
her  quite  as  well,  for  no  one  else  has  such  good  reason  as  I 
have.  But  now  the  dear  woman  wants  a  lodger,  for  you 
know  she  can't  afford  to  live  in  so  large  a  house  by  herself. 
But  I  knew  when  I  persuaded  her  to  go  there  that  she  would 
be  sure  to  get  one — she's  such  a  comfortable  creature  to  live 
with  ;  and  I  didn't  like  her  to  spend  all  the  rest  of  her  days 
up  that  dull  passage,  being  at  every  one's  beck  and  call  who 
wanted  to  make  use  of  her." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Tryan,  "  I  quite  understand  your  feeling ; 
I  don't  wonder  at  your  strong  regard  for  her." 

"  Well,  but  now  I  want  her  other  friends  to  second  me. 
There  she  is,  with  three  rooms  to  let,  ready  furnished,  every 
thing  in  order ;  and  I  know  some  one,  who  thinks  as  well  of 
her  as  I  do,  and  who  would  be  doing  good  all  round — to 
every  one  that  knows  him,  as  well  as  to  Mrs.  Pettifer,  if  he 
would  go  to  live  with  her.  He  would  leave  some  uncomfort- 
able lodgings,  which  another  person  is  already  coveting  and 
would  take  immediately ;  and  he  would  go  to  breathe  pure 
air  at  Holly  Mount,  and  gladden  Mrs.  Pettifer's  heart  by  let- 
ting her  wait  on  him ;  and  comfort  all  his  friends,  who  are 
quite  miserable  about  him." 

Mr.  Tryan  saw  it  all  in  a  moment — he  saw  that  it  had  all 
been  done  for  his  sake.  He  could  not  be  sorry ;  he  could 
not  say  no ;  he  could  not  resist  the  sense  that  life  had  a  new 
sweetness  for  him,  and  that  he  should  like  it  to  be  prolonged 
a  little,  only  a  little,  for  the  sake  of  feeling  a  stronger  security 
about  Janet.  When  she  had  finished  speaking,  she  looked 
at  him  with  a  doubtful,  inquiring  glance.  He  was  not  look- 
ing at  her ;  his  eyes  were  cast  downward  ;  but  the  expression 
of  his  face  encouraged  her,  and  she  said,  in  a  half-playful  tone 
of  entreaty, 

"  You  will  go  and  live  with  her  ?  I  know  you  will.  You 
will  come  back  with  me  now  and  see  the  house." 

He  looked  at  her  then,  and  smiled.  There  is  an  unspeak- 
able blending  of  sadness  and  sweetness  in  the  smile  of  a  face 
sharpened  and  paled  by  slow  consumption.  That  smile  of 
Mr.  Tryan's  pierced  poor  Janet's  heart :  she  felt  in  it  at  once 
the  assurance  of  grateful  affection  and  the  prophecy  of  coming 
death.  Her  tears  rose  ;  they  turned  round  without  speaking, 
and  went  back  again  along  the  lane. 


332  SCENES   OF   CLEKICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

IN  less  than  a  week  Mr.  Tryan  was  settled  at  Holly  Mount, 
and  there  was  not  one  of  his  many  attached  hearers  who  did 
not  sincerely  rejoice  at  the  event. 

The  autumn  that  year  was  bright  and  warm,  and  at  the 
beginning  of  October,  Mr.  Walsh,  the  new  curate,  came.  The 
mild  weather,  the  relaxation  from  excessive  work,  and  per- 
haps another  benignant  influence,  had  for  a  few  weeks  a  visi- 
bly favorable  effect  on  Mr.  Tryan.  At  least  he  began  to  feel 
new  hopes,  which  sometimes  took  the  guise  of  new  strength. 
He  thought  of  the  cases  in  which  consumptive  patients  re- 
main nearly  stationary  for  years,  without  suffering  so  as  to 
make  their  life  burthensome  to  themselves  or  to  others ;  and 
he  began  to  struggle  with  a  longing  that  it  might  be  so  with 
him.  He  struggled  with  it,  because  he  felt  it  to  be  an  indi- 
cation that  earthly  affection  was  beginning  to  have  too  strong 
a  hold  on  him,  and  he  prayed  earnestly  for  more  perfect  sub- 
mission, and  fora  more  absorbing  delight  in  the  Divine  Pres- 
ence as  the  chief  good.  He  was  conscious  that  he  did  not 
wish  for  prolonged  life  solely  that  he  might  reclaim  the  wan- 
derers and  sustain  the  feeble :  he  was  conscious  of  a  new 
yearning  for  those  pure  human  joys  which  he  had  voluntari- 
ly and  determinedly  banished  from  his  lite — for  a  draught  of 
that  deep  affection  from  which  he  had  been  cut  off  by  a  dark 
chasm  of  remorse.  For  now,  that  affection  was  within  his 
reach  ;  he  saw  it  there,  like  a  palm-shadowed  well  in  the  des- 
ert ;  he  could  not  desire  to  die  in  sight  of  it. 

And  so  the  autumn  rolled  gently  by  in  its  "  calm  decay." 
Until  November,  Mr.  Tryan  continued  to  preach  occasionally, 
to  ride  about  visiting  his  flock,  and  to  look  in  at  his  schools ; 
but  his  growing  satisfaction  in  Mr.  Walsh  as  his  successor 
saved  him  from  too  eager  exertion  and  from  worrying  anxi- 
eties. Janet  was  with  him  a  great  deal  now,  for  she  saw  that 
he  liked  her  to  read  to  him  in  the  lengthening  evenings,  and 
it  became  the  rule  for  her  and  her  mother  to  have  tea  at  Hol- 
ly Mount,  where,  with  Mrs.  Pettifer,  and  sometimes  another 
friend  or  two,  they  brought  Mr.  Tryan  the  unaccustomed  en- 
joyment of  companionship  by  his  own  fireside. 

Janet  did  not  share  his  new  hopes,  for  she  was  not  only  in 
the  habit  of  hearing  Mr.  Pratt's  opinion  that  Mr.  Tryan  could 
hardly  stand  out  through  the  winter,  but  she  also  knew  that 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  333 

it  was  shared  by  Dr.  Madely,  of  Rotberby,  whom,  at  her  re 
quest,  he  had  consented  to  call  in.  It  was  not  necessary  or 
desirable  to  tell  Mr.  Tryan  what  was  revealed  by  the  stetho- 
scope, but  Janet  knew  the -worst. 

8he  felt  no  rebellion  under  this  prospect  of  bereavement, 
but  rather  a  quiet  submissive  sorrow.  Gratitude  that  his 
influence  and  guidance  had  been  given  her,  even  if  only 
for  a  little  while — gratitude  that  she  was  permitted  to  be 
with  him,  to  take  a  deeper  and  deeper  impress  from  daily 
communion  with  him,  to  be  something  to  him  in  these  last 
months  of  his  life,  was  so  strong  in  her  that  it  almost  silenced 
regret.  Janet  had  lived  through  the  great  tragedy  of  wom- 
an's life.  Her  keenest  personal  emotions  had  been  poured 
forth  in  her  early  love — her  wounded  affection  with  its  years 
of  anguish— her  agony  of  unavailing  pity  over  that  deathbed 
seven  months  ago.  The  thought  of  Mr.  Tryan  was  associated 
for  her  with  repose  from  that  conflict  of  emotion,  with  trust 
in  the  unchangeable,  with  the  influx  of  a  power  to  subdue 
self.  To  have  been  assured  of  his  sympathy,  his  teaching, 
his  help,  all  through  her  life,  would  have  been  to  her  like  a 
heaven  already  begun — a  deliverance  from  fear  and  danger; 
but  the  time  was  not  yet  come  for  her  to  be  conscious  that  the 
hold  he  had  on  her  heart  was  any  other  than  that  of  the  heav- 
en-sent friend  who  had  come  to  her  like  the  angel  in  the  pris- 
on, and  loosed  her  bonds,  and  led  her  by  the  hand  till  she 
could  look  back  on  the  dreadful  doors  that  had  once  closed 
her  in. 

Before  November  was  over,  Mr.  Tryan  had  ceased  to  go 
out.  A  new  crisis  had  come  on  :  the  cough  had  changed  its 
t-haracter,  and  the  worst  symptoms  developed  themselves  so 
rapidly  that  Mr.  Pratt  began  to  think  the  end  would  arrive 
sooner  than  he  had  expected.  Janet  became  a  constant  at- 
tendant on  him  now,  and  no  one  could  feel  that  she  was  per- 
forming any  thing  but  a  sacred  office.  She  made  Holly  Mount 
her  home,  and,  with  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Pettifer  to  help  her, 
she  filled  the  painful  days  and  nights  with  every  soothing  in- 
fluence that  care  and  tenderness  could  devise.  There  were 
many  visitors  to  the  sick-room,  led  thither  by  venerating  af- 
fection ;  and  there  could  hardly  be  one  who  did  not  retain  in 
after  years  a  vivid  remembrance  of  the  scene  there — of  the 
pale  wasted  form  in  the  easy-chair  (for  he  sat  up  to  the  last), 
of  the  gray  eyes  so  full  even  yet  of  inquiring  kindness,  as  the 
thin,  almost  transparent  hand  was  held  out  to  give  the  press- 
ure of  welcome ;  arid  of  the  sweet  woman,  too,  whose  dark 
watchful  eyes  detected  every  want,  and  who  supplied  the 
want  with  a  ready  hand. 


334  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

There  were  others  who  would  have  had  the  heart  and  the 
skill  to  fill  this  place  by  Mr.  Tryan's  side,  and  who  would 
have  accepted  it  as  an  honor;  but  they  could  not  help  feeling 
that  God  had  given  it  to  Janet  by  a  train  of  events  which 
were  too  impressive  not  to  shame  all  jealousies  into  silence. 

That  sad  history  which  most  of  us  know  too  well,  lasted 
more  chan  three  months.  He  was  too  feeble  and  suffering 
for  the  last  few  weeks  to  see  any  visitors,  but  he  still  sat  up 
through  the  day.  The  strange  hallucinations  of  the  disease 
which  had  seemed  to  take  a  more  decided  hold  on  him  just  at 
the  fatal  crisis,  and  had  made  him  think  he  was  perhaps 
getting  better  at  the  very  time  when  death  had  begun  to 
hurry  on  with  more  rapid  movement,  had  now  given  way  and 
left  him  calmly  conscious  of  the  reality.  One  afternoon,  near 
the  end  of  February,  Janet  was  moving  gently  about  the 
room,  in  the  fire-lit  dusk,  arranging  some  things  that  would 
be  wanted  in  the  night.  There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room, 
and  his  eyes  followed  her  as  she  moved  with  the  firm  grace 
natural  to  her,  while  the  bright  fire  every  now  and  then  lit 
up  her  face,  and  gave  an  unusual  glow  to  its  dark  beauty. 
Even  to  follow  her  in  this  way  with  his  eyes  was  an  exertion 
that  gave  a  painful  tension  to  his  face,  while  afie  looked  like 
an  image  of  life  and  strength. 

"  Janet,"  he  said  presently,  in  his  faint  voice — he  always 
called  her  Janet  now.  In  a  moment  she  was  close  to  him, 
bending  over  him.  He  opened  his  hand  as  he  looked  up  at 
her,  and  she  placed  hers  within  it. 

"  Janet,"  he  said  again,  "  you  will  have  a  long  while  to  live 
after  I  am  gone." 

A  sudden  pang  of  fear  shot  through  her.  She  thought  he 
felt  himself  dying,  and  she  sank  on  her  knees  at  his  feet,  hold- 
ing his  hand,  while  she  looked  up  at  him,  almost  breathless. 

"  But  you  will  not  feel  the  need  of  me  as  you  have  done.  .  .  . 
You  have  a  sure  trust  in  God.  ...  I  shall  not  look  for  you 
in  vain  at  the  last." 

"  No  ...  no.  ...  I  shall  be  there.  .  .  .  God  will  not  for- 
sake me." 

She  could  hardly  utter  the  words,  though  she  was  not 
weeping.  She  was  waiting  with  trembling  eagerness  for  any 
thing  else  he  might  have  to  say. 

"  Let  us  kiss  each  other  before  we  part." 

She  lifted  up  her  face  to  his,  and  the  full  life-breathicg  lips 
met  the  wasted  dying  ones  in  a  sacred  kiss  of  promise. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  335 


CHAPTER  XXVm. 

IT  soon  came — the  blessed  day  of  deliverance,  the  sad  day 
of  bereavement ;  and  in  the  second  week  of  March  they  car- 
ried him  to  the  grave.  He  was  buried  as  he  had  desired: 
there  was  no  hearse,  no  mourning-coach ;  his  coffin  was  borne 
by  twelve  of  his  humbler  hearers,  who  relieved  each  other  by 
turns.  But  he  was  followed  by  a  long  procession  of  mourn- 
ing friends,  women  as  well  as  men. 

Slowly,  amid  deep  silence,  the  dark  stream  passed  along 
Orchard  Street,  where  eighteen  months  before  the  Evangeli- 
cal curate  had  been  saluted  with  hooting  and  hisses.  Mr. 
Jerome  and  Mr.  Landor  were  the  eldest  pall-bearers ;  and  be^ 
hind  the  coffin,  led  by  Mr.  Tryan's  cousin,  walked  Janet,  in 
quiet  submissive  sorrow.  She  could  not  feel  that  he  was 
quite  gone  from  her ;  the  unseen  world  lay  so  very  near  her 
• — it  held  all  that  had  ever  stirred  the  depths  of  anguish  and 
joy  within  her. 

It  was  a  cloudy  morning,  and  had  been  raining  when  they 
left  Holly  Mount ;  but  as  they  walked,  the  sun  broke  out,  and 
the  clouds  were  rolling  off  in  large  masses  when  they  entered 
the  churchyard,  and  Mr.  Walsh's  voice  was  heard  saying,  "  I 
am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life."  The  faces  were  not  hard 
at  this  funeral ;  the  burial-service  was  not  a  hollow  form. 
Every  heart  there  was  filled  with  the  memory  of  a  man  who, 
through  a  self-sacrificing  life  and  in  a  painful  death,  had  been 
sustained  by  the  faith  which  fills  that  form  with  breath  and 
substance. 

When  Janet  left  the  grave,  she  did  not  return  to  Holly 
Mount ;  she  went  to  her  home  in  Orchard  Street,  where  her 
mother  was  waiting  to  receive  her.  She  said  quite  calmly, 
"  Let  us  walk  round  the  garden,  mother."  And  they  walked 
round  in  silence,  with  their  hands  clasped  together,  looking 
at  the  golden  crocuses  bright  in  the  spring  sunshine.  Janet 
felt  a  deep  stillness  within.  She  thirsted  for  no  pleasure; 
she  craved  no  worldly  good.  She  saw  the  years  to  come 
stretch  before  her  like  an  autumn  afternoon,  filled  with  re- 
signed memory.  Life  to  her  could  never  more  have  any  ea- 
gerness; it  was  a  solemn  service  of  gratitude  and  patient  ef- 
fort. She  walked  in  the  presence  of  unseen  witnesses — of  the 
Divine  love  that  had  rescued  her,  of  the  human  love  that  wait- 


336  SCENES   OP   CLERICAL   LIFE. 

ed  for  its  eternal  repose  until  it  had  seen  her  endure  to  the 
end. 

Janet  is  living  still.  Her  black  hair  is  gray,  and  her  step 
is  no  longer  buoyant ;  but  the  sweetness  of  her  smile  remains, 
the  love  is  not  gone  from  her  eyes ;  and  strangers  sometimes 
ask,  Who  is  that  noble-looking  elderly  woman,  that  walks 
about  holding  a  little  boy  by  the  hand  ?  The  little  boy  is 
the  son  of  Janet's  adopted  daughter,  and  Janet  in  her  old  age 
has  children  about  her  knees,  and  loving  young  arms  round 
her  neck. 

There  is  a  simple  gravestone  in  Milby  churchyard,  telling 
that  in  this  spot  lie  the  remains  of  Edgar  Tryan,  for  two 
years  officiating  curate  at  the  Paddiford  Chapel-of-Ease,  in 
this  parish.  It  is  a  meagre  memorial,  and  tells  you  simply 
that  the  man  who  lies  there  took  upon  him,  faithfully  or  un- 
faithfully, the  office  of  guide  and  instructor  to  his  fellow-men. 

But  there  is  another  memorial  of  Edgar  Tryan,  which  bears 
a  fuller  record :  it  is  Janet  Dempster,  rescued  from  self-de- 
spair, strengthened  with  divine  hopes,  and  now  looking  back 
on  years  of  purity  and  helpful  labor.  The  man  who  has  left  such 
a  memorial  behind  him,  must  have  been  one  whose  heart  beat 
with  true  compassion,  and  whose  lips  were  moved  by  fervent 
faith. 


THE   END   OF  "SCENES   OF  CLEBICAL  LIFE.*' 


SILAS    MARKER 


THE  WEAVER  OF  RAVELOE. 


BY 


GEORGE   ELIOT. 


"  A  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man, 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts." 

WORDSWORTH. 


HARPER'S  LIBRARY  EDITION. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN   SQUARE. 


SILAS     MARNER: 

THE  WEAVER  OF  RAVELOE. 


PART  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  thtr  days  when  the  spinning-wheels  hummed  busily  in 
the  farmhouses — and  even  great  ladies,  clothed  in  silk  and 
thread-lace,  had  their  toy  spinning-wheels  of  polished  oak — 
there  might  be  seen  in  districts  far  away  among  the  lanes,  or 
deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  hills,  certain  pallid  undersized  men, 
who,  by  the  side  of  the  brawny  country-folk,  looked  like  the 
remnants  of  a  disinherited  race.  The  shepherd's  dog  barked 
fiercely  when  one  of  these  alien-looking  men  appeared  on  the 
upland,  dark  against  the  early  winter  sunset ;  for  what  dog 
likes  a  figure  bent  under  a  heavy  bag  ? — and  these  pale  men 
rarely  stirred  abroad  without  that  mysterious  burden.  The 
ohepherd  himself,  though  he  had  good  reason  to  believe  that 
the  bag  held  nothing  but  flaxen  thread,  or  else  the  long  rolls 
of  strong  linen  spun  from  that  thread,  was  not  quite  sure  that 
this  trade  of  weaving,  indispensable  though  it  was,  could  be 
carried  on  entirely  without  the  help  of  the  Evil  One.  In 
that  far-oif  time  superstition  clung  easily  round  every  person 
or  thing  that  was  at  all  unwonted,  or  even  intermittent  and 
occasional  merely,  like  the  visits  of  the  peddler  or  the  knife- 
grinder.  No  one  knew  where  wandering  men  had  their 
homes  or  their  origin ;  and  how  was  a  man  to  be  explained 
unless  you  at  least  knew  somebody  who  knew  his  father  and 
mother?  To  the  peasants  of  old  times,  the  world  outside 
their  own  direct  experience  was  a  region  of  vagueness  and 
mystery  :  to  their  untravelled  thought  a  state  of  wandering 
was  a  conception  as  dim  as  the  winter  life  of  the  swallows 
that  came  back  with  the  spring ;  and  even  a  settler,  if  he 
came  from  distant  parts,  hardly  ever  ceased  to  be  viewed 


340  SILAS   MAENER. 

with  a  remnant  of  distrust,  which  would  have  prevented  any 
surprise  if  a  long  course  of  inoffensive  conduct  on  his  part 
had  ended  in  the  commission  of  a  crime;  especially  if  he  had 
any  reputation  for  knowledge,  or  showed  any  skill  in  handi- 
craft. All  cleverness,  whether  in  the  rapid  use  of  that  diffi- 
cult instrument  the  tongue,  or  in  some  other  art  unfamiliar 
to  villagers,  was  in  itself  suspicious :  honest  folks,  born  and 
bred  in  a  visible  manner,  were  mostly  not  over-wise  or  clever 
— at  least  not  beyond  such  a  matter  as  knowing  the  signs  of 
the  weather;  and  the  process  by  which  rapidity  and  dexteri- 
ty of  any  kind  were  acquired  was  so  wholly  hidden,  that 
they  partook  of  the  nature  of  conjuring.  In  this  way  it  came 
to  pass  that  those  scattered  linen-weavers — emigrants  from 
the  town  into  the  country — were  to  the  last  regarded  as 
aliens  by  their  rustic  neighbors,  and  usually  contracted  the 
eccentric  habits  which  belong  to  a  state  of  loneliness. 

In  the  early  years  of  this  century,  such  a  linen-weaver, 
named  Silas  Marner,  worked  at  his  vocation  in  a  stone  cot- 
tage that  stood  among  the  nutty  hedgerows  near  the  village 
of  Raveloe,  and  not  far  from  the  edge  of  a  deserted  stone- 
pit.  The  questionable  sound  of  Silas's  loom,  so  unlike  the 
natural  cheerful  trotting  of  the  winnowing  machine,  or  the 
simpler  rhythm  of  the  flail,  had  a  half-fearful  fascination  for 
the  Raveloe  boys,  who  would  often  leave  off  their  nutting 
or  birds'-nesting  to  peep  in  at  the  window  of  the  stone  cot- 
tage, counterbalancing  a  certain  awe  at  the  mysterious  ac- 
tion of  the  loom,  by  a  pleasant  sense  of  scornful  superiority, 
drawn  from  the  mockery  of  its  alternating  noises,  along  with 
the  bent,  tread-mill  attitude  of  the  weaver.  But  sometimes 
it  happened  that  Marner,  pausing  to  adjust  an  irregularity  in 
his  thread,  became  aware  of  the  small  scoundrels,  and,  though 
chary  of  his  time,  he  liked  their  intrusion  so  ill  that  he  would 
descend  from  his  loom,  and,  opening  the  door,  would  fix  on 
them  a  gaze  that  was  always  enough  to  make  them  take  to 
their  legs  in  terror.  For  how  was  it  possible  to  believe  that 
those  large  brown  protuberant  eyes  in  Silas  Marner's  pale  face 
really  saw  nothing  very  distinctly  that  was  not  close  to  them 
and  not  rather  that  their  dreadful  stare  could  dart  cramp,  or 
rickets,  or  a  wry  mouth  at  any  boy  who  happened  to  be  in 
the  rear?  They  had,  perhaps,  heard  their  fathers  and  moth- 
ers hint  that  Silas  Manier  could  cure  folks'  rheumatism  if  he 
had  a  mind,  and  add,  still  more  darkly,  that  if  you  could  only 
speak  the  devil  fair  enough,  he  might  save  you  the  cost  of 
the  doctor.  Such  strange  lingering  echoes  of  the  old  demon- 
worship  might  perhaps  even  now  be  caught  by  the  diligent 
listener  among  the  gray-haired  peasantry  ;  for  the  rude  mind 


SILAS   MARXER. 


341 


with  difficulty  associates  the  ideas  of  power  and  benignity. 
A  shadowy  conception  of  power  that  by  much  persuasion 
can  be  induced  to  refrain  from  inflicting  harm,  is  the  shape 
most  easily  taken  by  the  sense  of  the  Invisible  in  the  minds 
of  men  who  have  always  been  pressed  close  by  primitive 
wants,  and  to  whom  a  life  of  hard  toil  has  never  been  illumi- 
nated by  any  enthusiastic  religious  faith.  To  them  pain 
and  mishap  present  a  far  wider  range  of  possibilities  than 
gladness  and  enjoyment :  their  imagination  is  almost  barren 
of  the  images  that  feed  desire  and  hope,  but  is  all  overgrown 
by  recollections  that  are  a  perpetual  pasture  to  fear.  "Is 
there  any  thing  you  can  fancy  that  you  would  like  to  eat  ?" 
I  once  said  to  an  old  laboring  man,  who  was  in  his  last  ill- 
ness, and  who  had  refused  all  the  food  his  wife  had  offered 
him.  "  No,"  he  answered,  "  I've  never  been  used  to  nothing 
but  common  victual,  and  I  can't  eat  that."  Experience  had 
bred  no  fancies  in  him  that  could  raise  the  phantasm  of  appe- 
tite. 


And  Raveloe  was  a  village  where  many  of  the  old  echoes 
lingered,  undrowned  by  new  voices.  Not  that  it  was  one 
of  those  barren  parishes  lying  on  the  outskirts  of  civilization 
— inhabited  by  meagre  sheep  and  thinly-scattered  shepherds; 
on  the  contrary,  it  lay  in  the  rich  central  plain  of  what  we 
are  pleased  to  call  Merry  England,  and  held  farms  which, 
speaking  from  a  spiritual  point  of  view,  paid  highly-desira- 
ble tithes.  But  it  was  nestled  in  a  snug  well-wooded  hol- 
low, quite  an  hour's  journey  on  horseback  from  any  turn- 
pike, where  it  was  never  reached  by  the  vibrations  of  the 

r> 


342  SILAS   MARNER. 

coach-horn,  or  of  public  opinion.  It  was  an  important-look- 
ing village,  with  a  fine  old  church  and  large  churchyard  in 
the  heart  of  it,  and  two  or  three  large  brick-and-stone  home- 
steads, with  well-walled  orchards  and  ornamental  weather- 
cocks, standing  close  upon  the  road,  and  lifting  more  impos- 
ing fronts  than  the  rectory,  which  peeped  from  among  the 
trees  on  the  other  side  of  the  churchyard ;  a  village  which 
showed  at  once  the  summits  of  its  social  life,  and  told  the 
practised  eye  that  there  was  no  great  park  and  manor-house 
in  the  vicinity,  but  that  there  were  several  chiefs  in  Raveloe 
who  could  farm  badly  quite  at  their  ease,  drawing  enough 
money  from  their  bad  farming,  in  those  war  times,  to  live  in 
a  rollicking  fashion,  and  keep  a  jolly  Christmas,  Whitstin, 
and  Easter  tide. 

It  was  fifteen  yeara  since  Silas  Marner  had  first  come  to 
Raveloe;  he  was  then  simply  a  pallid  young  man,  with  prom- 
inent, short-sighted  brown  eyes,  whose  appearance  would 
have  had  nothing  strange  for  people  of  average  culture  and 
experience,  but  for  the  villagers  near  whom  he  had  come  to 
settle  it  had  mysterious  peculiarities  which  corresponded  with 
the  exceptional  nature  of  his  occupation,  and  his  advent  from 
an  unknown  region  called  "  North'ard."  So  had  his  way  of 
life :  he  invited  no  comer  to  step  across  his  door-sill,  and  he 
never  strolled  into  the  village  to  drink  a  pint  at  the  Rainbow, 
or  to  gossip  at  the  wheelwright's  :  he  sought  no  man  or  wom- 
an, save  for  the  purposes  of  his  calling,  or  in  order  to  supply 
himself  with  necessaries ;  and  it  was  soon  clear  to  the  Rave- 
loe lasses  that  he  would  never  urge  one  of  them  to  accept 
him  against  her  will — quite  as  if  he  had  heard  them  declare 
that  they  would  never  marry  a  dead  man  come  to  life  again. 
This  view  of  Marner's  personality  was  not  without  another 
ground  than  his  pale  face  and  unexampled  eyes;  for  Jem 
Rodney,  the  mole-catcher,  averred  that,  one  evening  as  he 
was  returning  homeward,  he  saw  Silas  Marner  leaning  against 
a  stile  with  a  heavy  bag  on  his  back,  instead  of  resting  the 
bag  on  the  stile  as  a  man  in  his  senses  would  have  done ; 
and  that,  on  coming  up  to  him,  he  saw  that  Maraer's  eyes 
were  set  like  a  dead  man's,  and  he  spoke  to  him,  and  shook 
him,  and  his  limbs  were  stiff,  and  his  hands  clutched  the  bag 
as  if  they'd  been  made  of  iron;  but  just  as  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  that  the  weaver  was  dead,  he  came  all  right  again, 
like,  as  you  might  say,  in  the  winking  of  an  eye,  and  said 
"  Good-night,"  and  walked  off.  All  this  Jem  swore  he  had 
seen,  more  by  token  that  it  was  the  very  day  he  had  been 
mole-catching  on  Squire  Cass's  land,  down  by  the  old  saw- 
pit.  Some  said  Marner  must  have  been  in  a  "  fit,"  a  word 


SILAS   MAKNER.  343 

which  seemed  to  explain  things  otherwise  incredible;  but 
the  argumentative  Mr.  Macey,  clerk  of  the  parish,  shook  his 
head,  and  asked  if  any  body  was  ever  known  to  go  off  in  a 
fit  and  not  fall  down.  A  fit  was  a  stroke,  wasn't  it  ?  and  it 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  stroke  to  partly  take  away  the  use 
of  a  man's  limbs  and  throw  him  on  the  parish,  if  he'd  got  no 
children  to  look  to.  No,  no ;  it  was  no  stroke  that  would 
let  a  man  stand  on  his  legs,  like  a  horse  between  the  shafts, 
and  then  walk  off  as  soon  as  you  can  say  "  Gee  !"  But  there 
might  be  such  a  thing  as  a  man's  soul  being  loose  from  his 
body,  and  going  out  and  in,  like  a  bird  out  of  its  nest  and 
back;  and  that  was  how  folks  got  over-wise,  for  they  went 
to  school  in  this  shell-less  state  to  those  who  could  teach 
them  more  than  their  neighbors  could  learn  with  their  five 
senses  and  the  parson.  And  where  did  Master  Marner  get 
his  knowledge  of  herbs  from — and  charms  too,  if  he  liked  to 
give  them  away?  Jem  Rodney's  story  was  no  more  than 
what  might  have  been  expected  by  any  body  who  had  seej 
how  Marner  had  cured  Sally  Gates,  and  made  her  sleep  lik*. 
a  baby,  when  her  heart  had  been  beating  enough  to  burst 
her  body,  for  two  months  and  more,  while  she  had  been  un- 
der the  doctor's  care.  He  might  cure  more  folks  if  he  would ; 
but  he  was  worth  speaking  fair,  if  it  was  only  to  keep  him 
from  doing  you  a  mischief. 

It  was  partly  to  this  vague  fear  that  Marner  was  indebted 
for  protecting  him  from  the  persecution  that  his  singularities 
might  have  drawn  upon  him,  but  still  more  to  the  fact  that, 
the  old  linen-weaver  in  the  neighboring  parish  of  Tarley  be- 
ing dead,  his  handicraft  made  him  a  highly  welcome  settler 
to  the  richer  housewives  of  the  district,  and  even  to  the  more 
provident  cottagers,  who  had  their  little  stock  of  yarn  at  the 
year's  end ;  and  their  sense  of  his  usefulness  would  have 
counteracted  any  repugnance  or  suspicion  which  was  not 
confirmed  by  a  deficiency  in  the  quality  or  the  tale  of  the 
cloth  he  wove  for  them.  And  the  years  had  rolled  on  with- 
out producing  any  change  in  the  impressions  of  the  neigh- 
bors concerning  Marner,  except  the  change  from  novelty  to 
habit.  At  the  end  of  fifteen  years  the  Raveloe  men  said  just 
the  same  things  about  Silas  Marner  as  at  the  beginning  :  they 
did  not  say  them  quite  so  often,  but  they  believed  them  much 
more  strongly  when  they  did  say  them.  There  was  only  one 
important  addition  which  the  years  had  brought :  it  was, 
that  Master  Marner  had  laid  by  a  fine  sight  of  money  some- 
where, and  that  he  could  buy  up  "  bigger  men "  than  him- 
self. 

But  while  opinion  concerning  him  had  remained  nearly 


344  SILAS    MARKER. 

stationary,  and  Ins  daily  habits  had  presented  scarcely  any 
visible  change,  Marner's  inward  life  had  been  a  history  and  a 
metamorphosis,  as  that  of  every  fervid  nature  must  be  when 
it  has  fled,  or  been  condemned  to  solitude.  His  life,  before 
he  came  to  Raveloe,  had  been  filled  with  the  movement,  the 
mental  activity,  and  the  close  fellowship  which,  in  that  day 
as  in  this,  marked  the  life  of  an  artisan  early  incorporated  in\ 
a  narrow  religious  sect,  where  the  poorest  layman  has  the 
chance  of  distinguishing  himself  by  gifts  of  speech,  and  has, 
at  the  very  least,  the  weight  of  a  silent  voter  in  the  govern- 
ment of  his  community.  Marner  was  highly  thought  of  in 
that  little  hidden  world,  known  to  itself  as  the  church  assem- 
bling in  Lantern  Yard ;  he  was  believed  to  be  a  young  man 
of  exemplary  life  and  ardent  faith ;  and  a  peculiar  interest 
had  been  centred  in  him  ever  since  he  had  fallen,  at  a  prayer- 
meeting,  into  a  mysterious  rigidity  and  suspension  of  con- 
sciousness, which,  lasting  for  an  hour  or  more,  had  been  mis- 
taken for  death.  To  have  sought  a  medical  explanation  for 
this  phenomenon  would  have  been  held  by  Silas  himself, 
as  well  as  by  his  minister  and  fellow-members,  a  willful  self- 
exclusion  from  the  spiritual  significance  that  might  lie  there- 
in. Silas  was  evidently  a  brother  selected  for  a  peculiar  dis- 
cipline, and  though  the  effort  to  interpret  this  discipline  was 
discouraged  by  the  absence,  on  his  part,  of  any  spiritual  vis- 
ion during  his  outward  trance,  yet  it  was  believed  by  himself 
and  others  that  its  effect  was  seen  in  an  accession  of  light 
and  fervor.  A  less  truthful  man  than  him  might  have  been 
tempted  into  the  subsequent  creation  of  a  vision  in  the  form  of 
resurgent  memory ;  a  less  sane  man  might  have  believed  in  such 
a  creation ;  but  Silas  was  both  sane  and  honest,  though,  as  with 
many  honest  and  fervent  men,  culture  had  not  defined  any 
channels  for  his  sense  of  mystery,  and  so  it  spread  itself  over 
the  proper  pathway  of  inquiry  and  knowledge.  He  had  in- 
herited from  his  mother  some  acquaintance  with  medicinal 
herbs  and  their  preparation — a  little  store  of  wisdom  which 
she  had  imparted  to  him  as  a  solemn  bequest — but  of  late 
years  he  had  had  doubts  about  the  lawfulness  of  applying 
this  knowledge,  believing  that  herbs  could  have  no  efficacy 
without  prayer,  and  that  prayer  might  suffice  without  herbs ; 
BO  that  the  inherited  delight  he  had  in  wandering  in  the 
fields  in  search  of  foxglove  and  dandelion  and  coltsfoot,  be- 
gan to  wear  to  him  the  character  of  a  temptation. 

Among  the  members  of  his  church  there  was  one  young 
man,  a  little  older  than  himself,  with  whom  he  had  long  lived 
in  such  close  friendship  that  it  was  the  custom  of  their  Lan- 
tern Yard  brethren  to  call  them  David  and  Jonathan.  The 


SILAS    MAKNEE.  34O 

real  name  of  the  friend  was  William  Dane,  and  he,  too,  was 
regarded  as  a  shining  instance  of  youthful  piety,  though 
somewhat  given  to  over-severity  towards  weaker  brethren, 
and  to  be  so  dazzled  by  his  own  light  as  to  hold  himself 
wiser  than  his  teachers.  But  whatever  blemishes  others 
might  discern  in  William,  to  his  friend's  mind  he  was  fault- 
less; for  Marner  had  one  of  those  impressible  self-doubting 
natures  which,  at  an  inexperienced  age,  admire  imperative- 
ness and  lean  on  contradiction.  The  expression  of  trusting 
simplicity  in  Marner's  face,  heightened  by  that  absence  of 
special  observation,  that  defenseless,  deer-like  gaze  which  be- 
longs to  large  prominent  eyes,  was  strongly  contrasted  by 
the  self-complacent  suppression  of  inward  triumph  that  lurked 
in  the  narrow  slanting  eyes  and  compressed  lips  of  William 
Dane.  One  of  the  most  frequent  topics  of  conversation  be- 
tween the  two  fi  iends  was  Assurance  of  salvation  :  Silas  con- 
fessed that  he  could  never  arrive  at  any  thing  higher  than 
hope  mingled  with  fear,  and  listened  with  longing  wonder 
when  William  declared  that  he  had  possessed  unshaken  as- 
surance ever  since,  in  the  period  of  his  conversion,  he  had 
dreamed  that  he  saw  the  words  "  calling  and  election  sure  " 
standing  by  themselves  on  a  white  page  in  the  open  Bible. 
Such  colloquies  have  occupied  many  a  pair  of  pale-faced  weav- 
ers, whose  unnurtured  souls  have  been  like  young  winged 
things,  fluttering  forsaken  in  the  twilight. 

It  had  seemed  to  the  unsuspecting  Silas  that  the  friendship, 
had  suffered  no  chill  even  from  his  formation  of  another  at- 
tachment of  a  closer  kind.  For  some  months  he  had  been  en- 
gaged to  a  young  servant-woman,  waiting  only  for  a  little 
increase  to  their  mutual  savings  in  order  to  their  marriage ; 
and  it  was  a  great  delight  to  him  that  Sarah  did  not  object 
to  William's  occasional  presence  in  their  Sunday  interviews. 
It  was  at  this  point  in  their  history  that  Silas's  cataleptic  fit 
occurred  during  the  prayer-meeting ;  and  amidst  the  various 
queries  and  expressions  of  interest  addressed  to  him  by  his 
fellow-members,  William's  suggestion  alone  jarred  with  the 
general  sympathy  towards  a  brother  thus  singled  out  for  spe- 
cial dealings.  He  observed  that,  to  him,  this  trance  looked 
more  like  a  visitation  of  Satan  than  a  proof  of  divine  favor, 
and  exhorted  his  friend  to  see  that  he  hid  no  accursed  thing 
within  his  soul.  Silas,  feeling  bound  to  accept  rebuke  and  ad- 
monition as  a  brotherly  office,  felt  no  resentment,  but  only 
pain,  at  his  friend's  doubts  concerning  him ;  and  to  this  was 
soon  added  some  anxiety  at  the  perception  that  Sarah's  man- 
ner towards  him  began  to  exhibit  a  strange  fluctuation  be- 
tween an  effort  at  an  increased  manifestation  of  regard  and 

15* 


346  SILAS   MARNEK. 

involuntary  signs  of  shrinking  and  dislike.  He  asked  her  if 
she  wished  to  break  off  their  engagement ;  but  she  denied 
this :  their  engagement  was  known  to  the  church,  and  had 
been  recognized  in  the  prayer-meetings  ;  it  could  not  be  bro- 
ken off  without  strict  investigation,  and  Sarah  could  render  no 
reason  that  would  be  sanctioned  by  the  feeling  of  the  com- 
munity. At  this  time  the  senior  deacon  was  taken  danger- 
ously ill,  and,  being  a  childless  widower,  he  was  tended  night 
and  day  by  some  of  the  younger  brethren  or  sisters.  Silas 
frequently  took  his  turn  in  the  night-watching  with  William, 
the  one  relieving  the  other  at  two  in  the  morning.  The  old 
man,  contrary  to  expectation,  seemed  to  be  on  the  way  to  re- 
covery, when  one  night  Silas,  sitting  up  by  his  bedside,  ob- 
served that  his  usual  audible  breathing  had  ceased.  The  can- 
dle was  burning  low,  and  he  had  to  lift  it  to  see  the  patient's 
face  distinctly.  Examination  convinced  him  that  the  deacon 
was  dead — had  been  dead  some  time,  for  the  limbs  were  rigid. 
Silas  asked  himself  if  he  had  been  asleep,  and  looked  at  the 
clock  :  it  was  already  four  in  the  morning.  How  was  it  that 
William  had  not  come  ?  In  much  anxiety  he  went  to  seek 
for  help,  and  soon  there  were  several  friends  assembled  in  the 
house,  the  minister  among  them,  while  Silas  went  away  to  his 
work,  wishing  he  could  have  met  William  to  know  the  reason 
of  his  non-appearance.  But  at  six  o'clock,  as  he  was  thinking 
of  going  to  seek  his  friend,  William  came,  and  with  him  the 
minister.  They  came  to  summon  him  to  Lantern  Yard,  to 
meet  the  church  members  there  ;  and  to  his  inquiry  concern- 
ing the  cause  of  the  summons  the  only  reply  was, "  You  will 
hear."  Nothing  further  was  said  until  Silas  was  seated  in 
the  vestry,  in  front  of  the  minister,  with  the  eyes  of  those  who 
to  him  represented  God's  people  fixed  solemnly  upon  him. 
Then  the  minister,  taking  out  a  pocket-knife,  showed  it  to  Si- 
las, and  asked  him  if  he  knew  where  he  had  left  that  knife  ? 
Silas  said,  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  left  it  anywhere  out 
of  his  own  pocket — but  he  was  trembling  at  this  strange  in- 
terrogation. He  was  then  exhorted  not  to  hide  his  sin,  but 
to  confess  and  repent.  The  knife  had  been  found  in  the  bu- 
reau by  the  departed  deacon's  bedside — found  in  the  place 
where  the  little  bag  of  church  money  had  lain,  which  the 
minister  himself  had  seen  the  day  before.  Some  hand  had  re- 
moved that  bag ;  and  whose  hand  could  it  be,  if  not  that  of 
the  man  to  whom  the  knife  belonged  ?  For  some  time  Silas 
was  mute  with  astonishment :  then  he  said,  "  God  will  clear 
me  :  I  know  nothing  about  the  knife  being  there,  or  the  mon- 
ey being  gone.  Search  me  and  my  dwelling;  you  will  find 
nothing  but  three  pound  five  of  my  own  savings,  which  Wil- 


SILAS   MARKER.  347 

liam  Dane  knows  I  have  had  these  six  months."  At  this  Wil- 
liam groaned,  but  the  minister  said,  "The  proof  is  heavy 
against  you,  brother  Marner.  The  money  was  taken  in  the 
night  last  past,  and  no  man  was  with  our  departed  brother 
but  you,  for  William  Dane  declares  to  us  that  he  was  hinder- 
ed by  sudden  sickness  from  going  to  take  his  place  as  usual, 
and  you  yourself  said  that  he  had  not  come  ;  and,  moreover, 
you  neglected  the  dead  body." 

'  I  must  have  slept,"  said  Silas.  Then,  after  a  pause,  he 
added, "  Or  I  must  have  had  another  visitation  like  that  which 
you  have  all  seen  me  under,  so  that  the  thief  must  have  come 
and  gone  while  I  was  not  in  the  body,  but  out  of  the  body. 
But,  I  say  again,  search  me  and  my  dwelling,  for  I  have  been 
nowhere  else." 

The  search  was  made,  and  it  ended — in  William  Dane's 
finding  the  well-known  bag,  empty,  tucked  behind  the  chest 
of  drawers  in  Silas's  chamber  !  On  this  William  exhorted  his 
friend  to  confess,  and  not  to  hide  his  sin  any  longer.  Silas 
turned  a  look  of  keen  reproach  on  him,  and  said,  "  William, 
for  nine  years  that  we  have  gone  in  and  out  together,  have 
you  ever  known  me  tell  a  lie?  But  God  will  clear  me." 

"  Brother,"  said  William,  "  how  do  I  know  what  you  may 
have  done  in  the  secret  chambers  of  your  heart,  to  give  Satan 
an  advantage  over  you  ?" 

Silas  was  still  looking  at  his  friend.  Suddenly  a  deep  flush 
came  over  his  face,  and  he  was  about  to  speak  impetuously, 
when  he  seemed  checked  again  by  some  inward  shock,  that 
sent  the  flush  back  and  made  him  tremble.  But  at  last  he 
spoke  feebly,  looking  at  William. 

"  I  remember  now — the  knife  wasn't  in  my  pocket." 

William  said,  "  I  know  nothing  of  what  you  mean."  The 
other  persons  present,  however,  began  to  inquire  where  Silas 
meant  to  say  that  the  knife  was,  but  he  would  give  no  further 
explanation:  he  only  said,  "I  am  sore  stricken;  I  can  say 
nothing.  God  will  clear  me." 

On  their  return  to  the  vestry  there  was  further  delibera- 
tion. Any  resort  to  legal  measures  for  ascertaining  the  culprit 
was  contrary  to  the  principles  of  the  Church :  prosecution  was 
held  by  them  to  be  forbidden  to  Christians,  even  if  it  had  been 
a  case  in  which  there  was  no  scandal  to  the  community.  But 
they  were  bound  to  take  other  measures  for  finding  out  the 
truth,  and  they  resolved  on  praying  and  drawing  lots.  This 
resolution  can  be  a  ground  of  surprise  only  to  those  who  are 
unacquainted  with  that  obscure  religious  life  which  has  gone 
on  in  the  alleys  of  our  towns.  Silas  knelt  with  his  brethren, 
relying  on  his  own  innocence  being  certified  by  immediate  di« 


348  SILAS   MABNEK. 

vine  interference,  but  feeling  that  there  was  sorrow  and  mourn* 
ing  behind  for  him  even  then — that  his  trust  in  man  had  been 
cruelly  bruised.  The  lots  declared  that  Silas  Marner  was 
guilty-.  He  was  solemnly  suspended  from  church-member- 
ship, and  called  upon  to  render  up  the  stolen  money :  only  on 
confession,  as  the  sign  of  repentance,  could  he  be  received  once 
more  within  the  fold  of  the  church.  Marner  listened  in  silence. 
At  last,  when  every  one  rose  to  depart,  he  went  towards  Wil- 
liam Dane  and  said,  in  a  voice  shaken  by  agitation — 

"  The  last  time  I  remember  using  my  knife,  was  when  I 
took  it  out  to  cut  a  strap  for  you.  I  don't  remember  putting 
it  in  my  pocket  again.  You  stole  the  money,  and  you  have 
woven  a  plot  to  lay  the  sin  at  my  door.  But  you  may  prosper, 
for  all  that:  there  is  no  just  God  that  governs  the  earth  right- 
eously, but  a  God  of  lies,  that  bears  witness  against  the  inno- 
cent." 

There  was  a  general  shudder  at  this  blasphemy. 

William  saidmeekly,"!  leave  our  brethren  to  judge  whether 
this  is  the  voice  of  Satan  or  not.  I  can  do  nothing  but  pray 
for  you,  Silas." 

Poor  Marner  went  out  with  that  despair  in  his  soul — that 
f.haken  trust  in  God  and  man,  which  is  little  short  of  madness 
to  a  loving  nature.  In  the  bitterness  of  his  wounded  spirit, 
lie  said  to  himself,  "She  will  cast  me  oif  too."  And  he  reflected 
that,  if  she  did  not  believe  the  testimony  against  him,  her 
whole  faith  must  be  upset  as  his  was.  To  people  accustomed 
to  reason  about  the  forms  in  which  their  religious  feeling  has 
incorporated  itself,  it  is  difficult  to  enter  into  that  simple,  un- 
taught state  of  mind  in  which  the  form  and  the  feeling  have 
never  been  severed  by  an  act  of  reflection.  We  are  apt  to 
think  it  inevitable  that  a  man  in  Marner's  position  should  have 
begun  to  question  the  validity  of  an  appeal  to  the  divine  judg- 
ment by  drawing  lots ;  but  to  him  this  would  have  been  an 
effort  of  independent  thought  such  as  he  had  never  known ; 
and  he  must  have  made  the  effort  at  a  moment  when  all  his 
energies  were  turned  into  the  anguish  of  disappointed  faith. 
If  there  is  an  angel  who  records  the  sorrows  of  men  as  well 
as  their  sins,  he  knows  how  many  and  deep  are  the  sorrows 
that  spring  from  false  ideas  for  which  no  man  is  culpable. 

Marner  went  home,  and  for  a  whole  day  sat  alone,  stunned 
by  despair,  without  any  impulse  to  go  to  Sarah  and  attempt 
to  win  her  belief  in  his  innocence.  The  second  day  he  took 
refuge  from  benumbing  unbelief,  by  getting  into  his  loom  and 
working  away  as  usual ;  and  before  many  hours  were  past,  the 
minister  and  one  of  the  deacons  came  to  him  with  the  message 
from  Sarah,  that  she  held  her  engagement  to  him  at  an  end. 


SILAS    MARKER.  349 

Silas  received  the  message  mutely,  and  then  turned  away  from 
the  messengers  to  work  at  his  loom  again.  In  little  more  than 
a  month  from  that  time,  Sarah  was  married  to  William  Dane ; 
and  not  long  afterwards  it  was  known  to  the  brethren  in  Lan- 
tern Yard  that  Silas  Marner  had  departed  from  the  town. 


CHAPTER  H 

EVEN  people  whose  lives  have  been  made  various  by 
learning,  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  keep  a  fast  hold  on 
their  habitual  views  of  life,  on  their  faith  in  the  Invisible — 
nay,  on  the  sense  that  their  past  joys  and  sorrows  are  a  real 
experience,  when  they  are  suddenly  transported  to  a  new 
land,  where  the  beings  around  them  know  nothing  of  their 
history,  and  share  none  of  their  ideas — where  their  mother 
earth  shows  another  lap,  and  human  life  has  other  forms  than 
those  on  which  their  souls  have  been  nourished.  Minds  that 
have  been  unhinged  from  their  old  faith  and  love,  have  per- 
haps sought  this  Lethean  influence  of  exile,  in  which  the  past 
becomes  dreamy  because  its  symbols  have  all  vanished,  and 
the  present  too  is  dreamy  because  it  is  linked  with  no  mem- 
ories. But  even  their  experience  may  hardly  enable  them 
thoroughly  to  imagine  what  was  the  effect  on  a  simple  weaver 
like  Silas  Marner,  when  he  left  his  own  country  and  people 
and  came  to  settle  in  Raveloe.  Nothing  could  be  more  unlike 
his  native  town,  set  within  sight  of  the  wide-spread  hillsides, 
than  this  low,  wooded  region,  where  he  felt  hidden  even  from 
the  heavens  by  the  screening  trees  and  hedge-rows.  There 
was  nothing  here,  when  he  rose  in  the  deep  morning  quiet  and 
looked  out  on  the  dewy  brambles  and  rank  tufted  grass,  that 
seemed  to  have  any  relation  with  that  life  centring  in  Lan- 
tern Yard,  which  had  once  been  to  him  the  altar-place  of  high 
dispensations.  The  white-washed  walls ;  the  little  pews 
where  well-known  figures  entered  with  a  subdued  rustling, 
and  where  first  one  well-known  voice  and  then  another,  pitch- 
ed in  a  peculiar  key  of  petition,  uttered  phrases  at  once  oc- 
cult and  familiar,  like  the  amulet  worn  on  the  heart ;  the  pul- 
pit where  the  minister  delivered  unquestioned  doctrine,  and 
swayed  to  and  fro,  and  handled  the  book  in  a  long  accustom- 
ed manner ;  the  very  pauses  between  the  couplets  of  the 
hymn,  as  it  was  given  out,  and  the  recurrent  swell  of  voices 
in  song ;  these  things  had  been  the  channel  of  divine  influ- 
ences to  Marner — they  were  the  fostering  home  of  his  religious 


350  SILAS   MARKER. 

emotions — they  were  Christianity  and  God's  kingdom  upon 
earth.  A  weaver  who  finds  hard  words  in  his  hymn-book 
knows  nothing  of  abstractions ;  as  the  little  child  knows  noth- 
ing of  parental  love,  but  only  knows  one  face  and  one  lap  to- 
wards which  it  stretches  its  arms  for  refuge  and  nurture. 

And  what  could  be  more  unlike  that  Lantern  Yard  world 
than  the  world  in  Raveloe  ? — orchards  looking  lazy  with  neg- 
lected plenty ;  the  large  church  in  the  wide  churchyard, 
which  men  gazed  at  lounging  at  their  own  doors  in  service- 
time  ;  the  purple=-faced  farmers  jogging  along  the  lanes  or 
turning  in  at  the  Rainbow ;  homesteads,  where  men  supped 
heavily  and  slept  in  the  light  of  the  evening  hearth,  and 
where  women  seemed  to  be  laying  up  a  stock  of  linen  for 
the  life  to  come.  There  were  no  lips  in  Raveloe  from  which 
a  word  could  fall  that  would  stir  Silas  Marner's  benumbed 
faith  to  a  sense  of  pain.  In  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  we 
know,  it  was  believed  that  each  territory  was  inhabited  and 
ruled  by  its  own  divinities,  so  that  a  man  could  cross  the 
bordering  heights  and  be  out  of  the  reach  of  his  native  gods, 
whose  presence  was  confined  to  the  streams  and  the  groves 
and  the  hills  among  which  he  had  lived  from  his  birth.  And 
poor  Silas  was  vaguely  conscious  of  something  not  unlike  the 
fueling  of  primitive  men,  when  they  fled  thus,  in  fear  or  in 
sullenness,  from  the  face  of  an  unpropitious  deity.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  Power  in  which  he  had  vainly  trusted  among 
the  streets  and  in  the  prayer-meetings,  was  very  far  away 
from  this  land  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge,  where  men  lived 
in  careless  abundance,  knowing  and  needing  nothing  of  that 
trust,  which,  for  him,  had  been  turned  to  bitterness.  The  lit- 
tle light  he  possessed  spread  its  beams  so  narrowly,  that  frus- 
trated belief  was  a  curtain  broad  enough  to  create  for  him 
the  blackness  of  night. 

His  first  movement  after  the  shock  had  been  to  work  in 
his  loom ;  and  he  went  on  with  this  unremittingly,  never 
asking  himself  why,  now  he  was  come  to  Raveloe,  he  worked 
far  on  into  the  night  to  finish  the  tale  of  Mrs.  Osgood's  table- 
linen  sooner  than  she  expected — without  contemplating  be- 
forehand the  money  she  would  put  into  his  hand  for  the  work. 
He  seemed  to  weave,  like  the  spider,  from  pure  impulse,  with- 
out reflection.  Every  man's  work,  pursued  steadily,  tends 
in  this  way  to  become  an  end  in  itself,  and  so  to  bridge 
over  the  loveless  chasms  of  his  life.  Silas's  hand  satisfied  it- 
self with  throwing  the  shuttle,  and  his  eye  with  seeing  the 
little  squares  in  the  cloth  complete  themselves  under  his  ef- 
fort. Then  there  were  the  calls  of  hunger;  and  Silas,  in  his 
solitude,  had  to  provide  his  own  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper, 


SILAS   MARKER.  351 

to  fetch  his  own  water  from  the  well,  and  put  his  own  kettle 
on  the  fire  ;  and  all  these  immediate  promptings  helped,  along 
with  the  weaving,  to  reduce  his  life  to  the  unquestioning  ac- 
tivity of  a  spinning  insect.  He  hated  the  thought  of  the 
past ;  there  was  nothing  that  called  out  his  love  and  fellow- 
ship towards  the  strangers  he  had  come  amongst ;  and  the 
future  was  all  dark,  for  there  was  no  Unseen  Love  that  cared 
for  him.  Thought  was  arrested  by  utter  bewilderment,  now 
its  old  narrow  pathway  Avas  closed,  and  affection  seemed  to 
have  died  under  the  bruise  that  had  fallen  on  its  keenest 
nerves. 

But  at  last  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  was  finished,  and  Si- 
las was  paid  in  gold.  His  earnings  in  his  native  town,  where 
he  worked  for  a  wholesale  dealer,  had  been  after  a  lower  rate  ; 
he  had  been  paid  weekly,  and  of  his  weekly  earnings  a  large 
proportion  had  gone  to  objects  of  piety  and  charity.  Now, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  had  five  bright  guineas  put  into 
his  hand ;  no  man  expected  a  share  of  them,  and  he  loved  no 
man  that  he  should  offer  him  a  share.  But  what  were  the 
guineas  to  him  who  saw  no  vista  beyond  countless  days  of 
weaving  ?  It  was  needless  for  him  to  ask  that,  for  it  was 
pleasant  to  him  to  feel  them  in  his  palm,  and  look  at  their 
bright  faces,  which  were  all  his  own  :  it  was  another  element 
of  life,  like  the  weaving  and  the  satisfaction  of  hunger,  sub- 
sisting quite  aloof  from  the  life  of  belief  and  love  from  which 
he  had  been  cut  off.  The  weaver's  hand  had  known  the  touch 
of  hard-won  money  even  before  the  palm  had  grown  to  its 
full  breadth  ;  for  twenty  years,  mysterious  money  had  stood 
to  him  as  the  symbol  of  earthly  good,  and  the  immediate  ob- 
ject of  toil.  He  had  seemed  to  love  it  little  in  the  years 
when  every  penny  had  its  purpose  for  him ;  for  he  loved  the 
purpose  then.  But  now,  when  all  purpose  was  gone,  that 
habit  of  looking  towards  the  money  and  grasping  it  with  a 
sense  of  fulfilled  effort  made  a  loam  that  was  deep  enough  for 
the  seeds  of  desire  ;  and  as  Silas  walked  homeward  across  the 
fields  in  the  twilight,  he  drew  out  the  money,  and  thought  it 
was  brighter  in  the  gathering  gloom. 

About  this  time  "an  incident  happened  which  seemed  to 
open  a  possibility  of  some  fellowship  with  his  neighbors.  One 
day,  taking  a  pair  of  shoes  to  be  mended,  he  saw  the  cobbler's 
wife  seated  by  the  fire,  suffering  from  the  terrible  symptoms 
of  heart-disease  and  dropsy,  which  he  had  witnessed  as  the 
precursors  of  his  mother's  death.  He  felt  a  rush  of  pity  at 
the  mingled  sight  and  remembrance,  and,  recalling  the  relief 
his  mother  had  found  from  a  simple  preparation  of  foxglove, 
he  promised  Sally  Gates  to  bring  her  something  that  would 


352  SILAS  MABNKR. 

ease  her,  since  the  doctor  did  her  no  good.  In  this  office  of 
charity,  Silas  felt,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  come  to  Rave- 
loe,  a  sense  of  unity  between  his  past  and  present  life,  which 
might  have  been  the  beginning  of  his  rescue  from  the  insect- 
like  existence  into  which  his  nature  had  shrunk.  But  Sally 
Oates's  disease  had  raised  her  into  a  personage  of  much  in- 
terest and  importance  among  the  neighbors,  and  the  fact  of 
her  having  found  relief  from  drinking  Silas  Marner' s  "stuff'* 
became  a  matter  of  general  discourse.  When  Doctor  Kimble 
gave  physic,  it  was  natural  that  it  should  have  an  effect ;  but 
when  a  weaver,  who  came  from  nobody  knew  where,  worked 
wonders  with  a  bottle  of  brown  waters,  the  occult  character 
of  the  process  was  evident.  Such  a  sort  of  thing  had  not  been 
known  since  the  Wise  Woman  at  Tarley  died ;  and  she  had 
charms  as  well  as  "  stuff:"  every  body  went  to  her  when  their 
children  had  fits.  Silas  Marner  must  be  a  person  of  the  same 
sort,  for  how  did  he  know  what  would  bring  back  Sally  Oates's 
breath,  if  he  didn't  know  a  fine  sight  more  than  that  ?  The 
Wise  Woman  had  words  that  she  muttered  to  herself,  so  that 
you  couldn't  hear  what  they  were,  and  if  she  tied  a  bit  of  red 
thread  round  the  child's  toe  the  while,  it  would  keep  off  the 
water  in  the  head.  There  were  women  in  Raveloe,  at  that 
present  time,  who  had  worn  one  of  the  Wise  Woman's  little 
bags  round  their  necks,  and,  in  consequence,  had  never  had  an 
idiot  child,  as  Ann  Coulter  had.  Silas  Marner  could  very 
likely  do  as  much,  and  more ;  and  now  it  was  all  clear  how  he 
should  have  come  from  unknown  parts,  and  be  so  "  comical- 
looking."  But  Sally  Gates  must  mind  and  not  tell  the  doc- 
tor, for  he  would  be  sure  to  set  his  face  against  Marner ;  he 
was  always  angry  about  the  Wise  Woman,  and  used  to  threat- 
en those  who  went  to  her  that  they  should  have  none  of  his 
help  any  more. 

Silas  now  found  himself  and  his  cottage  suddenly  beset  by 
mothers  who  wanted  him  to  charm  away  the  whooping-cougn, 
or  bring  back  the  milk,  and  by  men  who  wanted  stuff  against 
the  rheumatics  or  the  knots  in  the  hands ;  and,  to  secure  them- 
selves against  a  refusal,  the  applicants  brought  silver  in  their 
palms.  Silas  might  have  driven  a  profitable  trade  in  charms 
as  well  as  in  his  small  list  of  drugs ;  but  money  on  this  con- 
dition was  no  temptation  to  him  :  he  had  never  known  an  im- 
pulse towards  falsity,  and  he  drove  one  after  another  away 
with  growing  irritation,  for  the  news  of  him  as  a  wise  man  had 
spread  even  to  Tarley,  and  it  was  long  before  people  ceased 
to  take  long  walks  for  the  sake  of  asking  his  aid.  But  the 
hope  in  his  wisdom  was  at  length  changed  into  dread,  for  no 
one  believed  him  when  he  said  he  knew  no  charms  and  could 


SILAS  MARNER.  853 

work  no  cures,  and  every  man  and  woman  who  had  an  acci- 
dent or  a  new  attack  after  applying  to  him,  set  the  misfortune 
down  to  Master  Marner's  ill-will  and  irritated  glances.  Thus 
it  came  to  pass  that  his  movement  of  pity  towards  Sally 
Gates,  which  had  given  him  a  transient  sense  of  brotherhood, 
heightened  the  repulsion  between  him  and  his  neighbors,  and 
made  his  isolation  more  complete. 

Gradually  the  guineas,  the  crowns,  and  the  half-crowns, 
grew  to  a  heap,  and  Marner  drew  less  and  less  for  his  own 
wants,  trying  to  solve  the  problem  of  keeping  himself  strong 
enough  to  Avork  sixteen  hours  a  day  on  as  small  an  outlay  as 
possible.  Have  not  men,  shut  up  in  solitary  imprisonment, 
found  an  interest  in  marking  the  moments  by  straight  strokes 
of  a  certain  length  on  the  wall,  until  the  growth  of  the  sum 
of  straight  strokes,  arranged  in  triangles,  has  become  a  mas- 
tering purpose  ?  Do  we  not  while  away  moments  of  inanity 
or  fatigued  waiting  by  repeating  some  trivial  movement  or 
sound,  until  the  repetition  has  bred  a  want,  which  is  incipi- 
ent habit  ?  That  will  help  us  to  understand  how  the  love  of 
accumulating  money  grows  an  absorbing  passion  in  men 
whose  imaginations,  even  in  the  very  beginning  of  their 
hoard,  showed  them  no  purpose  beyond  it.  Marner  wanted 
the  heaps  of  ten  to  grow  into  a  square,  and  then  into  a  larger 
square ;  and  every  added  guinea,  while  it  was  itself  a  satis- 
faction, bred  a  new  desire.  In  this  strange  world,  made  a 
hopeless  riddle  to  him,  he  might,  if  he  had  had  a  less  intense 
nature,  have  sat  weaving,  weaving — looking  towards  the  end 
of  his  pattern,  or  towards  the  end  of  his  web,  till  he  forgot 
the  riddle,  and  every  thing  else  but  his  immediate  sensa- 
tions :  but  the  money  had  come  to  mark  off  his  weaving  into 
periods,  and  the  money  not  only  grew,  but  it  remained  with 
him.  He  began  to  think  it  was  conscious  of  him,  as  his  loom 
was,  and  he  would  on  no  account  have  exchanged  those 
coins,  which  had  become  his  familiars,  for  other  coins  with 
unknown  faces.  He  handled  them,  he  counted  them,  till  their 
form  and  color  were  like  the  satisfaction  of  a  thirst  to  him : 
but  it  was  only  in  the  night,  when  his  work  was  done,  that 
lie  drew  them  out  to  enjoy  their  companionship.  He  had 
taken  up  some  bricks  in  his  floor  underneath  his  loom,  and 
here  he  had  made  a  hole  in  which  he  set  the  iron  pot  that 
contained  his  guineas  and  silver  coins,  covering  the  bricks 
with  sand  whenever  he  replaced  them.  Not  that  the  idea  of 
being  robbed  presented  itself  often  or  strongly  to  his  mind : 
hoarding  was  common  in  country  districts  in  those  days ; 
there  were  old  laborers  in  the  parish  of  Raveloe  who  were 
known  to  have  their  savings  by  them,  probably  inside  their 


354  SILAS    MAItXEJB. 

flock-beds ;  but  their  rustic  neighbors,  though  not  all  of  them 
as  honest  as  their  ancestors  in  the  days  of  King  Alfred,  had 
not  imaginations  bold  enough  to  lay  a  plan  of  burglary. 
How  could  they  have  spent  the  money  in  their  own  village 
without  betraying  themselves  ?  They  would  be  obliged  to 
"  run  away  " — a  course  as  dark  and  dubious  as  a  balloon 
journey. 

So,  year  after  year,  Silas  Marner  had  lived  in  this  solitude, 
his  guineas  rising  in  the  iron  pot,  and  his  life  narrowing  and 
hardening  itself  more  and  more  into  a  mere  pulsation  of  de- 
sire and  satisfaction  that  had  no  relation  to  any  other  being. 
His  life  had  reduced  itself  to  the  mere  functions  of  weaving 
and  hoarding,  without  any  contemplation  of  an  end  towards 
which  the  functions  tended.  The  same  sort  of  process  has 
perhaps  been  undergone  by  wiser  men,  when  they  have  been 
cut  off  from  faith  and  love — only,  instead  of  a  loom  and  a 
heap  of  guineas,  they  have  had  some  erudite  research,  some 
ingenious  project,  or  some  well-knit  theory.  Strangely  Mar- 
ner's  face  and  figure  shrank  and  bent  themselves  into  a  con- 
stant mechanical  relation  to  the  objects  of  his  life,  so  that  he 
produced  the  same  sort  of  impression  as  a  handle  or  a  crook- 
ed tube,  which  has  no  meaning  standing  apart.  The  promi- 
nent eyes  that  used  to  look  trusting  and  dreamy,  now  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  made  to  see  only  one  kind  of  thing  that 
was  very  small,  like  tiny  grain,  for  which  they  hunted  every- 
where :  and  he  was  so  withered  and  yellow,  that,  though  he 
was  not  yet  forty,  the  children  always  called  him  "  Old  Mas- 
ter Marner." 

Yet  even  in  this  stage  of  withering  a  little  incident  hap- 
pened which  showed  that  the  sap  of  affection  was  not  all 
gone.  It  was  one  of  his  daily  tasks  to  fetch  his  water  from 
a  well  a  couple  of  fields  off,  and  for  this  purpose,  ever  since 
he  came  to  Raveloe,  he  had  had  a  brown  earthenware  pot, 
which  he  held  as  his  most  precious  utensil,  among  the  very 
few  conveniences  he  had  granted  himself.  It  had  been  his 
companion  for  twelve  years,  always  standing  on  the  same 
spot,  always  lending  its  handle  to  him  in  the  early  morning, 
so  that  its  form  had  an  expression  for  him  of  willing  helpful- 
ness, and  the  impress  of  its  handle  on  his  palm  gave  a  satis- 
faction mingled  with  that  of  having  the  fresh  clear  water. 
One  day  as  he  was  returning  from  the  well,  he  stumbled 
against  the  step  of  the  stile,  and  his  brown  pot,  falling  with 
force  against  the  stones  that  overarched  the  ditch  below 
him,  was  broken  in  three  pieces.  Silas  picked  up  the  pieces 
and  carried  them  home  with  grief  in  his  heart.  The  brown 
pot  could  never  be  of  use  to  him  any  more,  but  he  stuck  the 


SILAS    MARXEK.  355 

bits  together  and  propped  the  ruin  in  its  old  place  for  a 
memorial. 

This  is  the  history  of  Silas  Marner  until  the  fifteenth  year 
after  he  came  to  Raveloe.  The  livelong  day  he  sat  in  his 
loom,  his  ear  filled  with  its  monotony,  his  eyes  bent  close 
down  on  the  slow  gi'owth  of  sameness  in  the  brownish  web, 
his  muscles  moving  with  such  even  repetition  that  their  pause 
seemed  almost  as  much  a  constraint  as  the  holding  of  his 
breath.  But  at  night  came  his  revelry ;  at  night  he  closed 
his  shutters,  and  made  fast  his  doors,  and  drew  out  his  gold. 
Long  ago  the  heap  of  coins  had  become  too  large  for  the 
iron  pot  to  hold  them,  and  he  had  made  for  them  two  thick 
leather  bags,  which  wasted  no  room  in  their  resting-place, 
but  lent  themselves  flexibly  to  every  corner.  How  the  guin- 
eas shone  as  they  came  pouring  out  of  the  dark  leather 
mouths  !  The  silver  bore  no  large  proportion  in  amount  to 
the  gold,  because  the  long  pieces  of  linen  which  formed  his 
chief  work  were  always  partly  paid  for  in  gold,  and  out  of 
the  silver  he  supplied  his  own  bodily  wants,  choosing  always 
the  shillings  and  sixpences  to  spend  in  this  way.  He  loved 
the  guineas  best,  but  he  would  not  change  the  silver — the 
crowns  and  half-crowns  that  were  his  own  earnings,  begotten 
by  his  labor;  he  loved  them  all.  He  spread  them  out  in 
heaps  and  bathed  his  hands  in  them ;  then  he  counted  them 
and  set  them  up  in  regular  piles,  and  felt  their  rounded  out- 
line between  his  thumb  and  fingers,  and  thought  fondly  of 
the  guineas  that  were  only  half-earned  by  the  work  in  his 
loom,  as  if  they  had  been  unborn  children — thought  of  the 
guineas  that  were  coming  slowly  through  the  coming  "years, 
through  all  his  life,  which  spread  tar  away  before  .him,  the 
end  quite  hidden  by  countless  days  of  weaving.  No  won- 
der his  thoughts  were  still  with  his  loom  and  his  money 
when  he  made  his  journeys  through  the  fields  and  the  lanes 
to  fetch  and  carry  home  his  work,  so  that  his  steps  never 
wandered  to  the  hedge-banks  and  the  lane-side  in  search  of 
the  once  familiar  herbs  :  these  too  belonged  to  the  past,  from 
which  his  life  had  shrunk  away,  like  a  rivulet  that  has  sunk 
far  down  from  the  grassy  fringe  of  its  old  breadth  into  a  lit- 
tle shivering  thread,  that  cuts  a  groove  for  itself  in  the  bar- 
ren sand. 

But  about  the  Christmas  of  that  fifteenth  year,  a  second 
great  change  came  over  Marner's  life,  and  his  history  became 
blent  in  a  singular  manner  with  the  life  of  his  neighbors. 


356  SILAS   MABNEB. 


CHAPTER  El. 

THE  greatest  man  in  Raveloe  was  Squire  Cass,  who  lived 
in  the  large  red  house  with  the  handsome  flight  of  stone 
steps  in  front  and  the  high  stables  behind  it,  nearly  opposite 
the  church.  He  was  only  one  among  several  landed  parish- 
ioners, but  he  alone  was  honored  with  the  title  of  Squire  :  for 
though  Mr.  Osgood's  family  was  also  understood  to  be  of 
timeless  origin — the  Raveloe  imagination  having  never  ven- 
tured back  to  that  fearful  blank  when  there  were  no  Osgoods 
— still,  he  merely  owned  the  farm  he  occupied;  whereas 
Squire  Cass  had  a  tenant  or  two,  who  complained  of  the 
game  to  him  quite  as  if  he  had  been  a  lord. 

It  was  still  that  glorious  war-time  which  was  felt  to  be  a 
peculiar  favor  of  Providence  towards  the  landed  interest, 
and  the  fall  of  prices  had  not  yet  come  to  carry  the  race  of 
small  squires  and  yeomen  down  that  road  to  ruin  for  which 
extravagant  habits  and  bad  husbandry  were  plentifully 
anointing  their  wheels.  I  am  speaking  now  in  relation  to 
Raveloe  and  the  parishes  that  resembled  it;  for  our  old- 
fashioned  country  life  had  many  different  aspects,  as  all  life 
mviot  have  when  it  is  spread  over  a  various  surface,  and 
breathed  on  variously  by  multitudinous  currents,  from  the 
winds  of  heaven  to  the  thoughts  of  men,  which  are  forever 
moving  and  crossing  each  other  with  incalculable  results. 
Raveloe  lay  low  among  the  bushy  trees  and  the  rutted  lanes, 
aloof  from  the  currents  of  industrial  energy  and  Puritan 
earnestness ;  the  rich  ate  and  drank  freely,  and  accepted 
gout  and  apoplexy  as  things  that  ran  mysteriously  in  re- 
spectable families,  and  the  poor  thought  that  the  rich  were 
entirely  in  the  right  of  it  to  lead  a  jolly  life ;  besides,  their 
feasting  caused  a  multiplication  of  orts,  which  were  the  heir- 
looms of  the  poor.  Betty  Jay  scented  the  boiling  of  Squire 
Cass's  hams,  but  her  longing  was  arrested  by  the  unctuous 
liquor  in  which  they  were  boiled ;  and  when  the  seasons 
brought  round  the  great  merry-makings,  they  were  regarded 
on  all  hands  as  a  fine  thing  for  the  poor.  For  the  Raveloe 
feasts  were  like  the  rounds  of  beef  and  the  barrels  of  ale — 
they  were  on  a  large  scale,  and  lasted  a  good  while,  especial- 
ly in  the  winter-time.  After  ladies  had  packed  up  their  best 
gowns  and  top-knots  in  bandboxes,  and  had  incurred  the 
risk  of  fording  streams  on  pillions  with  the  precious  burden 
in  rainy  or  snowy  weather,  when  there  was  no  knowing  how 


SILAS   MARXER.  357 

Ligh  the  water  would  rise,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that 
they  looked  fonvard  to  a  brief  pleasure.  On  this  ground  it 
was  always  contrived  in  the  dark  seasons,  when  there  was 
little  work  to  be  done,  and  the  hours  were  long,  that  several 
neighbors  should  keep  open  house  in  succession.  So  soon  as 
Squire  Cass's  standing  dishes  diminished  in  plenty  and  fresh- 
ness, his  guests  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  a  little  higher 
up  the  village  to  Mr.  Osgood's,  at  the  Orchards,  and  they  found 
hams  and  chines  uncut,  pork-pies  with  the  scent  of  the  fire 
in  them,  spun  butter  in  all  its  freshness — every  thing,  in  fact, 
that  appetites  at  leisure  could  desire,  in  perhaps  greater  per- 
fection, though  not  in  greater  abundance,  than  at  Squire 
Cass's. 

For  the  Squire's  wife  had  died  long  ago,  and  the  Red  House 
was  without  that  presence  of  the  wife  and  mother  which  is  the 
fountain  of  wholesome  love  and  fear  in  parlor  and  kitchen ; 
and  this  helped  to  account  not  only  for  there  being  more  pro- 
fusion than  finished  excellence  in  the  holiday  provisions,  but 
also  for  the  frequency  with  which  the  proud  Squire  condescend- 
ed to  preside  in  the  parlor  of  the  Rainbow  rather  than  under 
the  shadow  of  his  own  dark  wainscot ;  perhaps,  also,  for  the 
fact  that  his  sons  had  turned  out  rather  ill.  Raveloe  was  not 
a  place  where  moral  censure  was  severe,  but  it  was  thought  a 
weakness  in  the  Squire  that  he  had  kept  all  his  sons  at  home 
in  idleness ;  and  though  some  license  was  to  be  allowed  to 
young  men  whose  fathers  could  afford  it,  people  shook  their 
heads  at  the  courses  of  the  second  son,  Dunstan,  commonly 
called  Dunsey  Cass,  whose  taste  for  swopping  and  betting 
might  turn  out  to  be  a  sowing  of  something  worse  than  wild 
oats.  To  be  sure,  the  neighbors  said,  it  was  no  matter  what 
became  of  Dunsey — a  spiteful  jeering  fellow,  who  seemed  to 
enjoy  his  drink  the  more  when  other  people  went  dry — always 
provided  that  his  doings  did  not  bring  trouble  on  a  family 
like  Squire  Cass's,  with  a  monument  in  the  church  and  tank- 
ards older  than  King  George.  But  it  would  be  a  thousand 
pities  if  Mr.  Godfrey,  the  eldest,  a  fine,  open-faced,  good-na- 
tured young  man,  who  was  to  come  into  the  land  some  day, 
should  take  to  going  along  the  same  road  as  his  brother,  as 
he  had  seemed  to  do"  of  late.  If  he  went  on  in  that  way,  he 
would  lose  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter ;  for  it  was  well-known  that 
she  had  looked  very  shyly  on  him  ever  since  last  Whitsuntide 
twelvemonth,  when  there  was  so  much  talk  about  his  being 
away  from  home  days  and  days  together.  There  was  some- 
thing wrong,  more  than  common — that  was  quite  clear ;  for 
Mr.  Godfrey  didn't  look  half  so  fresh-colored  and  open  as  he 
used  to  do.  At  one  time  every  body  was  saying,  What  a  hand- 


358  SILAS   MAKNEK. 

some  couple  he  and  Miss  Nancy  Lamraeter  would  make !  and 
if  she  could  come  to  be  mistress  at  the  Red  House,  there  would 
be  a  fine  change,  for  the  Lammeters  had  been  brought  up  in 
that  way,  that  they  never  suffered  a  pinch  of  salt  to  be  wasted, 
and  yet  every  body  in  their  household  had  of  the  best,  ac- 
cording to  his  place.  Such  a  daughter-in-law  would  be  a  sav- 
ing to  the  old  Squire,  if  she  never  brought  a  penny  to  her  for- 
tune, for  it  was  to  be  feared  that,  notwithstanding  his  incom- 
ings, there  were  more  holes  in  his  pocket  than  the  one  where 
he  put  his  own  hand  in.  But  if  Mr.  Godfrey  didn't  turn  over 
a  new  leaf,  he  might  say  "  Good-bye  "  to  Miss  Nancy  Lam- 
meter. 

It  was  the  once  hopeful  Godfrey  who  was  standing,  with  his 
hands  in  his  side-pockets  and  his  back  to  the  fire,  in  the  dark 
wainscoted  parlor,  one  late  November  afternoon,  in  that  fif- 
teenth year  of  Silas  Marner's  life  at  Raveloe.  The  fading  gray 
light  fell  dimly  on  the  walls  decorated  with  guns,  whips,  and 
foxes'  brushes,  on  coats  and  hats  flung  on  the  chairs,  on  tank- 
ards sending  forth  a  scent  of  flat  ale,  and  on  a  half-choked  fire, 
with  pipes  propped  up  in  the  chimney-corners  :  signs  of  a  do- 
mestic life  destitute  of  any  hallowing  charm,  with  which  the 
look  of  gloomy  vexation  on  Godfrey's  blond  face  was  in  sad 
accordance.  He  seemed  to  be  waiting  and  listening  for  some 
one's  approach,  and  presently  the  sound  of  a  heavy  step,  with 
an  accompanying  whistle,  was  heard  across  the  large  empty 
entrance-hall. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  thick-set,  heavy-looking  young  man 
entered,  with  the  flushed  face  and  the  gratuitously  elated  bear- 
ing which  mark  the  first  stage  of  intoxication.  It  was  Dun- 
sey,  and  at  the  sight  of  him  Godfrey's  face  parted  with  some 
of  its  gloom  to  take  on  the  more  active  expression  of  hatred. 
The  handsome  brown  spaniel  that  lay  on  the  hearth  retreated 
under  the  chair  in  the  chimney-corner. 

"  Well,  Master  Godfrey,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?"  said 
Dunsey,  in  a  mocking  tone.  "You're  my  elders  and  bet- 
ters, you  know ;  I  was  obliged  to  come  when  you  sent  for 
me." 

"  Why,  this  is  what  I  want — and  just  shake  yourself  sober 
and  listen,  will  you  ?"  said  Godfrey,  savagely.  He  had  himself 
been  drinking  more  than  was  good  for  him,  trying  to  turn  his 
gloom  into  uncalculating  anger.  "  I  want  to  tell  you,  I  must 
hand  over  that  rent  of  Fowlers  to  the  Squire,  or  else  tell  him 
I  gave  it  you ;  for  he's  threatening  to  distrain  for  it,  and  it'll 
all  be  out  soon,  whether  I  tell  him  or  not.  He  said  just  now, 
before  he  went  out,  he  should  send  word  to  Cox  to  distrain, 
if  Fowler  didn't  come  and  pay  up  his  arrears  this  week.  Tho 


SILAS   MARKER.  359 

Squire's  short  o'  cash,  and  in  no  humor  to  stand  any  nonsense  ; 
and  you  know  what  he  threatened,  if  ever  he  found  you  mak- 
ing away  with  his  money  again.  So,  see  and  get  the  money, 
and  pretty  quickly,  will  you  ?" 

"Oh!"  said  Dunsey,  sneeringly,  coming  nearer  to  his 
brother,  and  looking  in  his  face.  "  Suppose,  now,  you  get 
the  money  yourself,  and  save  me  the  trouble,  eh  ?  Since  you 
was  so  kind  as  to  hand  it  over  to  me,  you'll  not  refuse  me  the 
kindness  to  pay  it  back  for  me :  it  was  your  brotherly  love 
made  you  do  it,  you  know." 

Godfrey  bit  his  lips  and  clenched  his  fist.  "  Don't  come 
near  me  with  that  look,  else  I'll  knock  you  down." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  said  Dunsey,  turning  away  on  his 
heel,  however.  "  Because  I'm  such  a  good-natured  brother, 
you  know.  I  might  get  you  turned  out  of  house  and  home, 
and  cut  off  with  a  shilling  any  day.  I  might  tell  the  Squire 
how  his  handsome  son  was  married  to  that  nice  young  wom- 
an, Molly  Farran,  and  was  very  unhappy  because  he  couldn't 
live  with  his  drunken  wife,  and  I  should  slip  into  your  place 
as  comfortable  as  could  be.  But  you  see,  I  don't  do  it — I'm 
so  easy  and  good-natured.  You'll  take  any  trouble  for  me. 
You'll  get  the  hundred  pounds  for  me — I  know  you  will." 

"  How  can  I  get  the  money  ?"  said  Godfrey,  quivering.  "  I 
haven't  a  shilling  to  bless  myself  with.  And  it's  a  lie  that 
you'd  slip  into  my  place  :  you'd  get  yourself  turned  out  too, 
that's  all.  For  if  you  begin  telling  tales  I'll  follow.  Bob's  my 
father's  favorite — you  know  that  very  well.  He'd  only  think 
himself  well  rid  of  you." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Dunsey,  nodding  his  head  sideways 
is  he  looked  out  of  the  window.  "  It'  ud  be  very  pleasant  to 
me  to  go  in  your  company— you're  such  a  handsome  brother, 
and  we've  always  been  so  fond  of  quarrelling  with  one  anoth- 
er I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  without  you.  But  you'd  like 
better  for  us  both  to  stay  at  home  together;  I  know  you 
would.  So  you'll  manage  to  get  that  little  sum  o'  money, 
and  I'll  bid  you  good-bye,  though  I'm  sorry  to  part." 

Dunstan  was  moving  off,  but  Godfrey  rushed  after  him 
and  seized  him  by  the  arm,  saying,  with  an  oath, 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  no  money  :  I  can  get  no  money." 

"  Borrow  of  old  Kimble." 

"  I  tell  you,  he  won't  lend  me  any  more,  and  I  sha'n't  ask 
him." 

"  Well  then,  sell  Wildfire." 

"  Yes,  that's  easy  talking.  I  must  have  the  money  direct" 
ly." 

"  Well,  you've  only  got  to  ride  him  to  the  hunt  to-morrow. 


360  SILAS  MAKNEB. 

There'll  be  Bryce  and  Keating  there,  for  sure.  You'll  get 
more  bids  than  one." 

"  I  dare  say,  and  get  back  home  at  eight  o'clock,  splashed 
up  to  the  chin.  I'm  going  to  Mrs.  Osgood's  birthday  dance." 

"  Oho !"  said  Dunsey,  turning  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
trying  to  speak  in  a  small  mincing  treble.  "  And  there's 
sweet  Miss  Nancy  coming  ;  and  we  shall  dance  with  her  and 
promise  never  to  be  naughty  again,  and  be  taken  into  favor, 
and — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  about  Miss  Nancy,  you  fool,"  said  God- 
frey, turning  very  red,  "  else  I'll  throttle  you." 

"  What  for  ?"  said  Dunsey,  still  in  an  artificial  tone,  but 
taking  a  whip  from  the  table  and  beating  the  butt-end  of  it 
on  his  palm.  "  You've  a  very  good  chance.  I'd  advise  you 
to  creep  up  her  sleeve  again  :  it  'ud  be  saving  time,  if  Molly 
should  happen  to  take  a  drop  too  much  laudanum  some  day, 
and  make  a  widower  of  you.  Miss  Nancy  wouldn't  mind 
being  a  second,  if  she  didn't  know  it.  And  you've  got  a 
good-natured  brother,  who'll  keep  your  secret  well,  because 
you'll  be  so  very  obliging  to  him." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Godfrey,  quivering,  and  pale 
again.  "  My  patience  is  pretty  near  at  an  end.  If  yon  d  a 
little  more  sharpness  in  you,  you  might  know  that  you  may 
urge  a  man  a  bit  too  far,  and  make  one  leap  as  easy  as  an- 
other. I  don't  know  but  what  it  is  so  now :  I  may  as  well 
tell  the  Squire  every  thing  myself— I  should  get  you  off  my 
back,  if  I  got  nothing  else.  And,  after  all,  he'll  know  some 
time.  She's  been  threatening  to  come  herself  and  tell  him. 
So,  don't  flatter  yourself  that  your  secrecy's  worth  any  price 
you  choose  to  ask.  You  drain  me  of  money  till  I  have  got 
nothing  to  pacify  her  with,  and  she'll  do  as  she  threatens  some 
day.  It's  all  one.  I'll  tell  my  father  every  thing  myself, 
and  you  may  go  to  the  devil." 

Dunsey  perceived  that  he  had  overshot  his  mark,  and  that 
there  was  a  point  at  which  even  the  hesitating  Godfrey  might 
be  driven  into  decision.  But  he  said  with  an  air  of  unconcern, 

"  As  you  please  ;  but  I'll  have  a  draught  of  ale  first."  And 
ringing  the  bell,  he  threw  himself  across  two  chairs,  and  be- 
gan to  rap  the  window-seat  with  the  handle  of  his  whip. 

Godfrey  stood  still  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  uneasily 
moving  his  fingers  among  the  contents  of  his  side-pockets, 
and  looking  at  the  floor.  That  big  muscular  frame  of  his 
held  plenty  of  animal  courage,  but  helped  him  to  no  decision 
when  the  dangers  to  be  braved  were  such  as  could  neither  be 
knocked  down  nor  throttled.  His  natural  irresolution  and 
moral  cowardice  were  exaggerated  by  a  position  in  which 


SILAS   MABNEK.  301 

dreaded  consequences  seemed  to  press  equally  on  all  sides, 
and  his  irritation  had  no  sooner  provoked  him  to  defy  Dun- 
stan  and  anticipate  all  possible  betrayals,  than  the  miseries 
he  must  bring  on  himself  by  such  a  step  seemed  more  unen- 
durable to  him  than  the  present  evil.  The  results  of  confes- 
sion were  not  contingent,  they  were  certain;  whereas  be- 
trayal was  not  certain.  From  the  near  vision  of  that  cer- 
tainty he  fell  back  on  suspense  and  vacillation  with  a  sense 
of  repose.  The  disinherited  son  of  a  small  squire,  equally 
disinclined  to  dig  and  to  beg,  was  almost  as  helpless  as 
an  uprooted  tree,  which,  by  the  favor  of  earth  and  sky,  has 
grown  to  a  handsome  bulk  on  the  spot  where  it  first  shot 
upward.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  possible  to  think  of 
digging  with  some  cheerfulness  if  Nancy  Lammeter  were 
to  be  won  on  those  terms  ;  but  since  he  must  irrevocably  lose 
her  as  well  as  the  inheritance,  and  must  break  every  tie  but 
the  one  that  degraded  him  and  left  him  without  motive  for 
trying  to  recover  his  better  self,  he  could  imagine  no  future 
for  himself  on  the  other  side  of  confession  but  that  of"  'listing 
for  a  soldier  " — the  most  desperate  step  short  of  suicide,  in 
the  eyes  of  respectable  families.  No !  he  would  rather  trust 
to  casualties  than  to  his  own  resolve — rather  go  on  sitting 
at  the  feast  and  sipping  the  wine  he  loved,  though  with  the 
sword  hanging  over  him  and  terror  in  his  heart,  than  rush 
away  into  the  cold  darkness  where  there  was  no  pleasure  left. 
The  utmost  concession  to  Dunstan  about  the  horse  began  to 
seem  easy,  compared  with  the  fulfillment  of  his  own  threat. 
But  his  pride  would  not  let  him  recommence  the  conversa- 
tion otherwise  than  by  continuing  the  quarrel.  Dunstan  was 
waiting  for  this,  and  took  his  ale  in  shorter  draughts  than 
usual. 

"  It's  just  like  you,"  Godfrey  burst  out  in  a  bitter  tone, 
"  to  talk  about  my  selling  Wildfire  in  that  cool  way — the  last 
thing  I've  got  to  call  my  own,  and  the  best  bit  of  horse-flesh 
I  ever  had  in  my  life.  And  if  you'd  got  a  spark  of  pride  in 
you,  you'd  be  ashamed  to  see  the  stables  emptied,  and  every 
body  sneering  about  it.  But  it's  my  belief  you'd  sell  your- 
self, if  it  was  only  for  the  pleasure  of  making  somebody  feel 
he'd  got  a  bad  bargain." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  very  placably, "  you  do  me  justice, 
I  see.  You  know  I'm  a  jewel  for  'ticing  people  into  bargains. 
For  which  reason  I  advise  you  to  let  me  sell  Wildfire.  I'd 
ride  him  to  the  hunt  to-morrow  for  you  with  pleasure.  I 
shouldn't  look  so  handsome  as  you  in  the  saddle,  but  it's  the 
horse  they'll  bid  for,  and  not  the  rider." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say — trust  my  horse  to  you  !" 


362  SILAS   MARKER. 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Dunstan,  rapping  the  window-seat 
again  with  an  air  of  great  unconcern.  "  It's  you  have  got  to 
pay  Fowler's  money ;  it's  none  of  my  business.  You  received 
the  money  from  him  when  you  went  to  Bramcote,  and  you 
told  the  Squire  it  wasn't  paid.  I'd  nothing  to  do  with  that ; 
you  chose  to  be  so  obliging  as  give  it  me,  that  was  all.  If 
you  don't  want  to  pay  the  money,  let  it  alone  ;  it's  all  one  to 
me.  But  I  was  willing  to  accommodate  you  by  undertaking 
to  sell  the  horse,  seeing  it's  not  convenient  to  you  to  go  so  far 
to-morrow." 

Godfrey  was  silent  for  some  moments.  He  would  have 
liked  to  spring  on  Dunstan,  wrench  the  whip  from  his  hand, 
and  flog  him  to  within  an  inch  of  his  life ;  and  no  bodily  fear 
could  have  deterred  him ;  but  he  was  mastered  by  another 
sort  of  fear,  which  was  fed  by  feelings  stronger  even  than  his 
resentment.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  in  a  half-concilia' 
tory  tone. 

"  Well,  you  mean  no  nonsense  about  the  horse,  eh  ?  You'll 
sell  him  all  fair,  and  hand  over  the  money  ?  If  you  don't, 
you  know,  every  thing  'ull  go  to  smash,  for  I've  got  nothing 
else  to  trust  to.  And  you'll  have  less  pleasure  in  pulling  the 
house  over  my  head,  when  your  own  skull's  to  be  broken 
too." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  rising, "  all  right.  I  thought  you'd 
come  round.  I'm  the  fellow  to  bring  old  Bryce  up  to  the 
scratch.  I'll  get  you  a  hundred  and  twenty  for  him,  if  I  get 
you  a  penny." 

"  But  it'll  perhaps  rain  cats  and  dogs  to-morrow,  as  it  did 
yesterday,  and  then  you  can't  go,"  said  Godfrey,  hardly  know- 
ing whether  he  wished  for  that  obstacle  or  not. 

"  Not  «Y,"  said  Dunstan.  "  I'm  always  lucky  in  my  weath- 
er. It  might  rain  if  you  wanted  to  go  yourself.  You  never 
hold  trumps,  you  know — I  always  do.  You've  got  the  beau- 
ty, you  see,  and  I've  got  the  luck,  so  you  must  keep  me  by 
you  for  your  crooked  sixpence  ;  you'll  ne-ver  get  along  with- 
out me." 

"  Confound  you,  hold  your  tongue  !"  said  Godfrey,  impetu- 
ously. "  And  take  care  to  keep  sober  to-morrow,  else  you'll 
get  pitched  on  your  head  coming  home,  and  Wildfire  might 
be  the  worse  for  it." 

"  Make  your  tender  heart  easy,"  said  Dunstan,  opening  the 
door.  "  You  never  knew  me  see  double  when  I'd  got  a  bar- 

fain  to  make  ;  it  'ud  spoil  the  fun.     Besides,  whenever  I  fall, 
'm  warranted  to  fall  on  my  legs." 

With  that,  Dunstan  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  and 
left  Godfrey  to  that  bitter  rumination  on  his  personal  circum- 


SILAS   MARNER.  363 

stances  which  was  now  unbroken  from  day  to  day  save  by 
the  excitement  of  sporting,  drinking,  card-playing,  or  the 
rarer  and  less  oblivious  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Nancy  Lam- 
meter.  The  subtle  and  varied  pains  springing  from  the  high- 
er sensibility  that  accompanies  higher  culture  are  perhaps  less 
pitiable  than  that  dreary  absence  of  impersonal  enjoyment 
and  consolation  which  leaves  ruder  minds  to  the  perpetual 
urgent  companionship  of  their  own  griefs  and  discontents. 
The  lives  of  those  rural  forefathers,  whom  we  are  apt  to  think 
very  prosaic  figures — men  whose  only  work  was  to  ride  round 
their  land,  getting  heavier  and  heavier  in  their  saddles,  and 
who  passed  the  rest  of  their  days  in  the  half-listless  gratifica- 
tion of  senses  dulled  by  monotony — had  a  certain  pathos  in 
them  nevertheless.  Calamities  came  to  them  too,  and  their 
early  errors  carried  hard  consequences  :  perhaps  the  love  of 
some  sweet  maiden,  the  image  of  purity,  order,  and  calm,  had 
opened  their  eyes  to  the  vision  of  a  life  in  which  the  days 
would  not  seem  too  long,  even  without  rioting ;  but  the  maid- 
en was  lost,  and  the  vision  passed  away,  and  then  what  was 
left  to  them,  especially  when  they  had  become  too  heavy  for 
the  hunt,  or  for  carrying  a  gun  over  the  furrows,  but  to  drink 
and  get  merry,  or  to  drink  and  get  angry,  so  that  they  might 
be  independent  of  variety,  and  say  over  again  with  eager  em- 
phasis the  things  they  had  said  already  any  time  that  twelve- 
month ?  Assuredly,  among  these  flushed  and  dull-eyed  men 
there  were  some  whom — thanks  to  their  native  human  kind- 
ness— even  riot  could  never  drive  into  brutality ;  men  who, 
when  their  cheeks  were  fresh,  had  felt  the  keen  point  of  sor- 
i'ow  or  remorse,  had  been  pierced  by  the  reeds  they  leaned 
on,  or  had  lightly  put  their  limbs  in  fetters  from  which  no 
struggle  could  loose  them;  and  under  these  sad  circum- 
stances, common  to  us  all,  their  thoughts  could  find  no  rest' 
ing-place  outside  the  ever-trodden  round  of  their  own  petty 
history. 

That,  at  least,  was  the  condition  of  Godfrey  Cass  in  this 
six-and-twentieth  year  of  his  life.  A  movement  of  compunc- 
tion, helped  by  those  small  indefinable  influences  which  every 
personal  relation  exerts  on  a  pliant  nature,  had  urged  him 
into  a  secret  marriage,  which  was  a  blight  on  his  life.  It 
was  an  ugly  story  of  low  passion,  delusion,  and  waking  from, 
delusion,  which  needs  not  to  be  dragged  from  the  privacy 
of  Godfrey's  bitter  memory.  He  had  long  known  that  the 
delusion  was  partly  due  to  a  trap  laid  for  him  by  Dunstan, 
who  saw  in  his  brother's  degrading  marriage  the  means  of 
gratifying  at  once  his  jealous  hate  and  his  cupidity.  And  if 
Godfrey  could  have  felt  himself  simply  a  victim,  the  iron 


364  SILAS    MARNER. 

bit  that  destiny  had  put  into  his  mouth  would  have  chafed 
him,  less  intolerably.  If  the  curses  he  muttered  half  aloud 
when  he  was  alone  had  had  no  other  object  than  Dunstan's 
diabolical  cunning,  he  might  have  shrunk  less  from  the  con- 
sequences of  avowal.  But  he  had  something  else  to  curse 
— his  own  vicious  folly,  which  now  seemed  as  mad  and  unac- 
countable to  him  as  almost  all  our  follies  and  vices  do  when 
their  promptings  have  long  passed  away.  For  four  years 
he  had  thought  of  Nancy  Lammeter,  and  wooed  her  with 
tacit,  patient  worship,  as  the  woman  who  made  him  think  of 
the  future  with  joy :  she  would  be  his  wife,  and  would  make 
home  lovely  to  him,  as  his  father's  home  had  never  been ; 
and  it  would  be  easy,  when  she  was  always  near,  to  shake 
off  those  foolish  habits  that  were  no  pleasures,  but  only  a  fe- 
verish way  of  annulling  vacancy.  Godfrey's  was  an  essen- 
tially domestic  nature,  bred  up  in  a  home  where  the  hearth 
had  no  smiles,  and  where  the  daily  habits  were  not  chastised 
by  the  presence  of  household  order;  his  easy  disposition 
made  him  fall  in  unresistingly  with  the  family  courses,  but 
the  need  of  some  tender,  permanent  affection,  the  longing  for 
gome  influence  that  would  make  the  good  he  preferred  easy 
to  pursue,  caused  the  neatness,  purity,  and  liberal  orderli- 
ness of  the  Lammeter  household,  sunned  by  the  smile  of 
Nancy,  to  seem  like  those  fresh  bright  hours  of  the  morning, 
when  temptations  go  to  sleep,  and  leave  the  ear  open  to  the 
voice  of  the  good  angel,  inviting  to  industry,  sobriety,  and 
peace.  And  yet  the  hope  of  this  paradise  had  not  been 
enough  to  save  him  from  a  course  which  shut  him  out  of  it 
/'orever.  Instead  of  keeping  fast  hold  of  the  strong  silken 
i  ope  by  which  Nancy  would  have  drawn  him  safe  to  the  green 
banks,  where  it  was  easy  to  step  firmly,  he  had  let  himself  be 
dragged  back  into  mud  and  slime,  in  which  it  was  useless  to 
struggle.  He  had  made  ties  for  himself  which  robbed  him 
of  all  wholesome  motive,  and  were  a  constant  exasperation. 

Still,  there  was  one  position  worse  than  the  present ;  it 
was  the  position  he  would  be  in  when  the  ugly  secret  was 
disclosed;  and  the  desire  that  continually  triumphed  over 
every  other  was  that  of  warding  off  the  evil  day,  when  he 
would  have  to  bear  the  consequences  of  his  father's  violent 
resentment  for  the  wound  inflicted  on  his  family  pride — 
would  have,  perhaps,  to  turn  his  back  on  that  hereditary 
ease  and  dignity  which,  after  all,  was  a  sort  of  reason  for 
living,  and  would  carry  with  him  the  certainty  that  he  was 
banished  forever  from  the  sight  and  esteem  of  Nancy  Lam- 
meter. The  longer  the  interval,  the  more  chance  there  was 
of  deliverance  from  some,  at  least,  of  the  hateful  consequen* 


SILAS   MARNER.  365 

ces  to  which  he  had  sold  himself— the  more  opportunities 
remained  for  him  to  snatch  the  strange  gratification  of  see- 
ing Nancy,  and  gathering  some  faint  indications  of  her  lin- 
gering regard.  Towards  this  gratification  he  was  impelled 
fitfully,  every  now  and  then,  after  having  passed  weeks  in 
which  he  had  avoided  her  as  the  far-off  bright-winged  prize, 
that  only  made  him  spring  forward,  and  find  his  chain  all 
the  more  galling.  One  of  those  fits  of  yearning  was  on  him 
now,  and  it  would  have  been  strong  enough  to  have  per- 
suaded him  to  trust  Wildfire  to  Dunstan  rather  than  disap- 
point the  yearning,  even  if  he  had  not  had  another  reason 
for  his  disinclination  towards  the  morrow's  hunt.  That  oth- 
er reason  was  the  fact  that  the  morning's  meet  was  near 
Batherley,  the  market-town  where  the  unhappy  woman  lived, 
whose  image  became  more  odious  to  him  every  day ;  and  to 
his  thought  the  whole  vicinage  was  haunted  by  her.  The 
yoke  a  man  creates  for  himself  by  wrong-doing  will  breed 
hate  in  the  kindliest  nature  ;  and  the  good-humored,  affec- 
tionate-hearted Godfrey  Cass  was  fast  becoming  a  bittev 
man,  visited  by  cruel  wishes,  that  seemed  to  enter,  and  de- 
part, and  enter  again,  like  demons  who  had  found  in  him  a 
ready-garnished  home. 

What  was  he  to  do  this  evening  to  pass  the  time?  He 
might  as  well  go  to  the  'Rainbow,  and  hear  the  talk  about 
the  cock-fighting :  every  body  was  there,  and  what  else  was 
there  to  be  done  ?  Though,  for  his  own  part,  he  did  not  care 
a  button  for  cock-fighting.  Snuff,  the  brown  spaniel,  who 
had  placed  herself  in  front  of  him,  and  had  been  watching 
him  for  some  time,  now  jumped  up  in  impatience  for  the  ex- 
pected caress.  But.  Godfrey  thrust  her  away  without  look- 
ing at  her,  and  left  the  room,  followed  humbly  by  the  un re- 
senting Snuff — perhaps  because  she  saw  no  other  career  open 
to  her. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DTJNSTAN  CASS,  setting  off  in  the  raw  morning,  at  the  judi- 
ciously quiet  pace  of  a  man  who  is  obliged  to  ride  to  cover 
on  his  hunter,  had  to  take  his  way  along  the  lane  which,  at 
its  farther  extremity,  passed  by  the  piece  of  unenclosed 
ground  called  the  Stonepit,  where  stood  the  cottage,  once  a 
stone-cutter's  shed,  now  for  fifteen  years  inhabited  by  Silas 
Marner.  The  spot  looked  very  dreary  at  this  season,  with 
the  moist  trodden  clay  about  it,  and  the  red  muddy  wate* 


366  SILAS   MARNER. 

high  up  in  the  deserted  quarry.  That  was  Dunstan's  first 
thought  as  he  approached  it ;  the  second  was,  that  the  old 
fool  of'a  weaver,  whose  loom  he  heard  rattling  already,  had  a 
great  deal  of  money  hidden  somewhere.  How  was  it  that 
he,  Dunstan  Cass,  who  had  often  heard  talk  of  Marner's  mi- 
serliness, had  never  thought  of  suggesting  to  Godfrey  that 
he  should  frighten  or  persuade  the  old  fellow  into  lending 
the  money  on  the  excellent  security  of  the  young  Squire's 
prospects  ?  The  resource  occurred  to  him  now  as  so  easy 
and  agreeable,  especially  as  Marner's  hoard  was  likely  to  be 
large  enough  to  leave  Godfrey  a  handsome  surplus  beyond 
his  immediate  needs,  and  enable  him  to  accommodate  his  faith- 
ful brother,  that  he  had  almost  turned  the  horse's  head  towards 
home  again.  Godfrey  would  be  ready  enough  to  accept  the 
suggestion :  he  would  snatch  eagerly  at  a  plan  that  might 
save  him  from  parting  with  Wildfire.  But  when  Dunstan's 
meditation  reached  this  point,  the  inclination  to  go  on  grew 
strong  and  prevailed.  He  didn't  want  to  give  Godfrey  that 
pleasure :  he  preferred  that  Master  Godfrey  should  be  vexed. 
Moreover,  Dunstan  enjoyed  the  self-important  consciousness 
ol  having  a  horse  to  sell,  and  the  opportunity  of  driving  a 
bargain,  swaggering,  and,  possibly,  taking  somebody  in.  He 
might  have  all  the  satisfaction  attendant  on  selling  his  broth- 
er's horse,  and  not  the  less  have  the  further  satisfaction  of 
setting  Godfrey  to  borrow  Marner's  money.  So  he  rode  on 
to  cover. 

Bryce  and  Keating  were  there,  as  Dunstan  was  quite  sure 
they  would  be — he  was  such  a  lucky  fellow. 

"Hey-day,"  said  Bryce,  who  had  long  had  his  eye  on 
Wildfire,  "  you're  on  your  brother's  horse  to-day ;  how's 
that  ?" 

"  Oh,  I've  swapped  with  him,"  said  Dunstan,  whose  de- 
light in  lying,  grandly  independent  of  utility,  was  not  to  be 
diminished  by  the  likelihood  that  his  hearer  would  not  be- 
lieve him — "  Wildfire's  mine  now." 

"  What !  has  he  swopped  with  you  for  that  big-boned 
hack  of  yours  ?"  said  Bryce,  quite  aware  that  he  should  get 
another  lie  in  answer. 

"  Oh,  there  was  a  little  account  between  us,"  said  Dunstan, 
carelessly,  "  and  Wildfire  made  it  even.  I  accommodated 
him  by  taking  the  horse,  though  it  was  against  my  will,  for 
I'd  got  an  itch  for  a  mare  o'  JTortin's — as  rare  a  bit  o'  blood 
as  ever  you  threw  your  leg  across.  But  I  shall  keep  Wild- 
fire, now  I've  got  him,  though  I'd  a  bid  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 
for  him  the  other  day  from  :i  man  over  at  Flitton — he's  buy- 
ing for  Lord  Cromleck — a  fellow  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  and  a 


SILAS   MARNER.  867 

green  waistcoat.  But  I  mean  to  stick  to  Wildfire  :  1  sha'n't 
get  a  better  at  a  fence  in  a  hurry.  The  mare's  got  more 
blood,  but  she's  a  bit  too  weak  in  the  hind  quarters." 

Bryce  of  course  divined  that  Dunstan  wanted  to  sell  the 
horse,  and  Duustan  knew  that  he  divined  it  (horse-dealing  is 
only  one  of  many  human  transactions  carried  on  in  this  ingen- 
ious manner) ;  and  they  both  considered  that  the  bargain  was 
in  its  first  stage,  when  Bryce  replied  ironically — 

"  I  wonder  at  that  now ;  I  wonder  you  mean  to  keep  him ; 
for  I  never  heard  of  a  man  who  didn't  want  to  sell  his  horse 
getting  a  bid  of  half  as  much  again  as  the  horse  was  worth. 
You'll  be  lucky  if  you  get  a  hundred." 

Keating  rode  up  now,  and  the  transaction  became  more 
complicated.  It  ended  in  the  purchase  of  the  horse  by  Bryce 
for  a  hundred  and  twenty,  to  be  paid  on  the  delivery  of  Wild- 
fire, safe  and  sound,  at  the  Batherley  stables.  It  did  occur  to 
Dunsey  that  it  might  be  wise  for  him  to  give  up  the  day's 
hunting,  proceed  at  once  to  Batherley,  and,  having  waited  for 
Bryce's  return,  hire  a  horse  to  carry  him  home  with  the  mon- 
ey in  his  pocket.  But  the  inclination  for  a  run,  encouraged 
by  confidence  in  his  luck,  and  by  a  draught  of  brandy  from 
his  pocket-pistol  at  the  conclusion  of  the  bargain,  was  not 
easy  to  overcome,  especially  with  a  horse  under  him  that 
would  take  the  fences  to  the  admiration  of  the  field.  Dun- 
stan, however,  took  one  fence  too  many,  and  "  staked  "  his 
horse.  His  own  ill-favored  person,  which  was  quite  unmarket- 
able, escaped  without  injury,  but  poor  Wildfire,  unconscious 
of  his  price,  turned  on  his  flank,  and  painfully  panted  his  last. 
It  happened  that  Dunstan,  a  short  time  before,  having  had 
to  get  down  to  arrange  his  stirrup,  had  muttered  a  good  many 
curses  at  this  interruption,  which  had  thrown  him  in  the  rear 
of  the  hunt  near  the  moment  of  glory,  and  under  this  exaspe- 
ration had  taken  the  fences  more  blindly.  He  would  soon 
have  been  up  with  the  hounds  again,  when  the  fatal  accident 
happened ;  and  hence  he  was  between  eager  riders  in  advance, 
not  troubling  themselves  about  what  happened  behind  them, 
and  far-off  stragglers,  who  were  as  likely  as  not  to  pass  quite 
aloof  from  the  line  of  road  in  which  Wildfire  had  fallen. 
Dunstan,  whose  nature  it  was  to  care  more  for  immediate  an- 
noyances than  for  remote  consequences,  no  sooner  recovered 
his  legs,  and  saw  that  it  was  all  over  with  Wildfire,  than  he 
felt  a  satisfaction  at  the  absence  of  witnesses  to  a  position 
which  no  swaggering  could  make  enviable.  Reinforcing  him- 
self, after  his  shake,  with  a  little  brandy  and  much  swearing, 
he  walked  as  fast  as  he  could  to  a  coppice  on  his  right  hand, 
through  which  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  make  his  way 


368  SILAS   MARNER. 

to  Batherley  without  danger  of  encountering  any  member  of 
the  hunt.  His  first  intention  was  to  hire  a  horse  there  and 
I'ide  home  forthwith,  for  to  walk  many  miles  without  a  gun 
in  his  hand,  and  along  an  ordinary  road,  was  as  much  out  of 
the  question  to  him  as  to  other  spirited  young  men  of  his 
kind.  He  did  not  much  mind  about  taking  the  bad  news  to 
Godfrey,  for  he  had  to  offer  him  at  the  same  time  the  resource 
of  Marner's  money;  and  if  Godfrey  kicked,  as  he  always  did, 
at  the  notion  of  making  a  fresh  debt,  from  which  he  himself 
got  the  smallest  share  of  advantage,  why,  he  wouldn't  kick 
long :  Dunstan  felt  sure  he  could  worry  Godfrey  into  any 
thing.  The  idea  of  Marner's  money  kept  growing  in  vivid- 
ness, now  the  want  of  it  had  become  immediate  ;  the  prospect 
of  having  to  make  his  appearance  with  the  muddy  boots  of  a 
pedestrian  at  Batherley,  and  encounter  the  grinning  queries 
of  stablemen,  stood  unpleasantly  in  the  way  of  his  impatience 
to  be  back  at  Raveloe  and  carry  out  his  felicitous  plan ;  and 
a  casual  visitation  of  his  waistcoat-pocket,  as  he  was  ruminat- 
ing, awakened  his  memory  to  the  fact  that  the  two  or  three 
small  coins  his  fore-finger  encountered  there  were  of  too  pale 
a  color  to  cover  that  small  debt,  without  payment  of  which 
Jennings  had  declared  he  would  never  do  any  more  business 
with  Dunsey  Cass.  After  all,  according  to  the  direction  in 
which  the  run  had  brought  him,  he  was  not  so  very  much 
farther  from  home  than  he  was  from  Batherley  ;  but  Dunsey, 
not  being  remarkable  for  clearness  of  head,  was  only  led  to 
this  conclusion  by  the  gradual  perception  that  there  were 
other  reasons  for  choosing  the  unprecedented  course  of  walk- 
ing home.  It  was  now  nearly  four  o'clock,  and  a  mist  was 
gathering :  the  sooner  he  got  into  the  road  the  better.  He 
remembered  having  crossed  the  road  and  seen  the  finger-post 
only  a  little  while  before  Wildfire  broke  down  ;  so,  buttoning 
his  coat,  twisting  the  lash  of  his  hunting-whip  compactly 
round  the  handle,  and  rapping  the  tops  of  his  boots  with  a 
self-possessed  air,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  not  at 
all  taken  by  surprise,  he  set  off  with  the  sense  that  he  was 
undertaking  a  remarkable  feat  of  bodily  exertion,  which  some- 
how, and  at  some  time,  he  should  be  able  to  dress  up  and 
magnify  to  the  admiration  of  a  select  circle  at  the  Rainbow. 
When  a  young  gentleman  like  Dunsey  is  reduced  to  so  ex- 
ceptional a  mode  of  locomotion  as  walking,  a  whip  in  his 
hand  is  a  desirable  corrective  to  a  too  bewildering  dreamy 
sense  of  xmwontedness  in  his  position ;  and  Dunstan,  as  he 
went  along  through  the  gathering  mist,  was  always  rapping 
his  whip  somewhere.  It  was  Godfrey's  whip,  which  he  had 
chosen  to  take  without  leave  because  it  had  a  gold  handle ; 


SILAS   MAKNEB.  369 

of  course  no  one  could  see,  when  Dunstan  held  it,  that  the 
name  Godfrey  Cass  was  cut  in  deep  letters  on  that  gold  han- 
dle— they  could  only  see  that  it  was  a  very  handsome  whip. 
Dunsey  Avas  not  without  fear  that  he  might  meet  some  ac- 
quaintance in  whose  eyes  he  would  cut  a  pitiable  figure,  for 
mist  is  no  screen  where  people  get  close  to  each  other ;  but 
when  he  at  last  found  himself  in  the  well-known  Raveloe  lanes 
without  having  met  a  soul,  he  silently  remarked  that  that 
was  part  of  his  usual  good-luck.  But  now  the  mist,  helped 
by  the  evening  darkness,  was  more  of  a  screen  than  he  desired, 
for  it  hid  the  ruts  into  which  his  feet  were  liable  to  slip — 
hid  every  thing,  so  that  he  had  to  guide  his  steps  by  drag- 
ging his  whip  along  the  low  bushes  in  advance  of  the  hedge- 
row. He  must  soon,  he  thought,  be  getting  near  the  opening 
at  the  Stone-pits :  he  should  find  it  out  by  the  break  in  the 
hedgerow.  He  found  it  out,  however,  by  another  circum- 
stance which  he  had  not  expected — namely,  by  certain  gleams 
of  light,  which  he  presently  guessed  to  proceed  from  Silas 
Marner's  cottage.  That  cottage  and  the  money  hidden  with- 
in it  had  been  in  his  mind  continually  during  his  walk,  and 
he  had  been  imagining  ways  of  cajoling  and  tempting  the 
weaver  to  part  with  the  immediate  possession  of  his  money 
for  the  sake  of  receiving  interest.  Dunstan  felt  as  if  there 
must  be  a  little  frightening  added  to  the  cajolery,  for  his  own 
arithmetical  convictions  were  not  clear  enough  to  afford  him 
any  forcible  demonstration  as  to  the  advantages  of  interest ; 
and  as  for  security,  he  regarded  it  vaguely  as  a  means  of 
cheating  a  man,  by  making  him  believe  that  he  would  be  paid. 
Altogether,  the  operation  on  the  miser's  mind  was  a  task  that 
Godfrey  would  be  sure  to  hand  over  to  his  more  daring  and 
cunning  brother :  Dunstan  had  made  up  his  mind  to  that ; 
and  by  the  time  he  saw  the  light  gleaming  through  the  chinks 
of  Marner's  shutters,  the  idea  of  a  dialogue  with  the  weaver 
had  become  so  familiar  to  him,  that  it  occurred  to  him  as 
quite  a  natural  thing  to  make  the  acquaintance  forthwith. 
There  might  be  several  conveniences  attending  this  course ; 
the  weaver  had  possibly  got  a  lantern,  and  Dunstan  was  tired 
of  feeling  his  way.  He  was  still  nearly  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  from  home,  and  the  lane  was  becoming  unpleasantly 
slippery,  for  the  mist  was  passing  into  rain.  He  turned  up 
the  bank,  not  without  some  fear  lest  he  might  miss  the  right 
way,  since  he  was  not  certain  whether  the  light  were  in  front 
or  on  the  side  of  the  cottage.  But  he  felt  the  ground  before 
him  cautiously  with  his  whip-handle,  and  at  last  arrived  safe- 
ly at  the  door.  He  knocked  loudly,  rather  enjoying  the  idea 
that  the  old  fellow  would  be  frightened  at  the  sudden  noise. 

16* 


£70  SILAS   MAKNER. 

lie  heard  no  movement  in  reply :  all  was  silence  in  the  cot- 
tage. Was  the  weaver  gone  to  bed,  then  ?  If  so,  why  had 
he  left  a  light  ?  That  was  a  strange  forgetfulness  in  a  miser. 
Dunstan  knocked  still  more  loudly,  and,  without  pausing  for 
a  reply,  pushed  his  fingers  through  the  latch-hole,  intending 
to  shake  the  door  and  pull  the  latch-string  up  and  down,  not 
doubting  that  the  door  was  fastened.  But,  to  his  surprise,  at 
this  double  motion  the  door  opened,  and  he  found  himself  in 
front  of  a  bright  fire,  which  lit  up  every  corner  of  the  cottage 
— the  bed,  the  loom,  the  three  chairs,  and  the  table — and  show- 
ed him  that  Marner  was  not  there. 

Nothing  at  that  moment  could  be  much  more  inviting  to 
Dunsey  than  the  bright  fire  on  the  brick  hearth  ;  he  walked 
in  and  seated  himself  by  it  at  once.  There  was  something 
in  front  of  the  tire,  too,  that  would  have  been  inviting  to  a 
hungry  man,  if  it  had  been  in  a  different  stage  of  cooking. 
It  was  a  small  bit  of  pork  suspended  from  the  kettle-hanger 
by  a  string  passed  through  a  large  door-key,  in  a  way  known 
to  primitive  housekeepers  unpossessed  of  jacks.  But  the 
pork  had  been  hung  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  hanger, 
apparently  to  prevent  the  roasting  from  proceeding  too  rap- 
idly during  the  owner's  absence.  The  old  staring  simpleton 
had  hot  meat  for  his  supper,  then  ?  thought  Dunstan.  Peo- 
P'le  had  always  said  he  lived  on  mouldy  bread,  on  purpose  to 
check  his  appetite.  But  where  could  he  be  at  this  time,  and 
on  such  an  evening,  leaving  his  supper  in  this  stage  of  prep- 
aration, and  his  door  unfastened  ?  Dunstan's  own  recent 
difficulty  in  making  his  way  suggested  to  him  that  the  weav- 
er had  perhaps  gone  outside  his  cottage  to  fetch  in  fuel,  or  for 
fc^me  such  brief  purpose,  and  had  slipped  into  the  Stone-pit. 
That  was  an  interesting  idea  to  Dunston,  carrying  conse- 
quences of  entire  novelty.  If  the  weaver  was  dead,  who  had 
a  right  to  his  money  ?  Who  would  know  where  his  money 
was  hidden  ?  Who  would  know  that  any  body  had  come  to 
take  it  away  ?  He  went  no  farther  into  the  subtleties  of  ev- 
idence :  the  pressing  question,  "  Where  is  the  money  ?"  now 
took  such  entire  possession  of  him  as  to  make  him  quite  for- 
get that  the  weaver's  death  was  not  a  certainty.  A  dull 
mind,  once  arriving  at  an  inference  that  flatters  a  desire,  is 
rarely  able  to  retain  the  impression  that  the  notion  from 
which  the  inference  started  was  purely  problematic.  And 
Dunstan's  mind  was  as  dull  as  the  mind  of  a  possible  felon 
usually  is.  There  were  only  three  hiding-places  where  he 
had  ever  heard  of  cottagers'  hoards  being  found  ;  the  thatch, 
the  bed,  and  a  hole  in  the  floor.  Marner's  cottage  had  no 
thatch ;  and  Dunstan's  first  act,  after  a  train  of  thought  made 


SILAS   MAKNER.  371 

rapid  by  the  stimulus  of  cupidity,  was  to  go  up  to  the  bed ; 
but  while  he  did  so,  his  eyes  travelled  eagerly  over  the  floor, 
where  the  bricks,  distinct  in  the  fire-light,  were  discernible 
under  the  sprinkling  of  sand.  But  not  everywhere ;  for  there 
was  one  spot,  and  one  only,  which  was  quite  covered  witn 
sand,  and  sand  showing  the  marks  of  fingers,  which  had  ap- 
parently been  careful  to  spread  it  over  a  given  space.  It  was 
near  the  treddles  of  the  loom.  In  an  instant  Dunstan  darted 
to  that  spot,  swept  away  the  sand  with  his  whip,  and,  insert- 
ing the  thin  end  of  the  hook  between  the  bricks,  found  that 
they  were  loose.  In  haste  he  lifted  up  two  bricks,  and  saw 
what  he  had  no  doubt  was  the  object  of  his  search  ;  for  what 
could  there  be  but  money  in  those  two  leathern  bags  ?  And, 
from  their  weight,  they  must  be  filled  with  guineas.  Dun- 
stan felt  round  the  hole,  to  be  certain  that  it  held  no  more ; 
then  hastily  replaced  the  bricks,  and  spread  the  sand  over 
them.  Hardly  more  than  five  minutes  had  passed  since  he 
entered  the  cottage,  but  it  seemed  to  Dunstan  like  a  long 
while ;  and  though  he  was  without  any  distinct  recognition 
of  the  possibility  that  Marner  might  be  alive,  and  might  re- 
enter  the  cottage  at  any  moment,  he  felt  an  undefinable  dread 
laying  hold  on  him,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  with  the  bags  in 
his  hand.  He  would  hasten  out  into  the  darkness,  and  then 
consider  what  he  should  do  with  the  bags.  He  closed  the 
door  behind  him  immediately,  that  he  might  shut  in  the 
stream  of  light ;  a  few  steps  would  be  enough  to  carry  him 
beyond  betrayal  by  the  gleams  from  the  shutter-chinks  and 
the  latch-hole.  The  rain  and  darkness  had  got  thicker,  and 
he  was  glad  of  it ;  though  it  was  awkward  walking  with  both 
hands  filled,  so  that  it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  grasp 
his  whip  along  with  one  of  the  bags.  But  when  he  had  gone 
a  yard  or  two,  he  might  take  his  time.  So  he  stepped  for- 
ward into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHEN  Dunstan  Cass  turned  his  back  on  the  cottage,  Silas 
Marner  was  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  away  from  it,  plod- 
ding along  from  the  village  with  a  sack  thrown  round  his  shoul- 
ders as  an  over-coat,  and  with  a  horn  lantern  in  his  hand.  His 
legs  were  weary,  but  his  mind  was  at  ease,  free  from  the  pre- 
sentiment of  change.  The  sense  of  security  more  frequently 
springs  from  habit  than  from  conviction,  and  for  this  reason  it 


372  SILAS   MARNER. 

often  subsists  after  such  a  change  in  the  conditions  as  might 
have  been  expected  to  suggest  alarm.  The  lapse  of  time  during 
which  a  given  event  has  not  happened,  is, in  this  logic  of  habit, 
constantly  alleged  as  a  reason  why  the  event  should  never 
hap  pen,  even  when  the  lapse  of  time  is  precisely  the  added  con- 
dition which  makes  the  event  imminent.  A  man  will  tell  you 
that  he  has  worked  in  a  mine  for  forty  years  unhurt  by  an  acci- 
dent as  a  reason  why  he  should  apprehend  no  danger,  though 
the  roof  is  beginning  to  sink  ;  and  it  is  often  observable,  that 
the  older  a  man  gets,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  him  to  retain  a 
believing  conception  of  his  own  death.  This  influence  of  habit 
was  necessarily  strong  in  a  man  whose  life  was  so  monotonous 
as  Marner's — who  saw  no  new  people  and  heard  of  no  new 
events  to  keep  alive  in  him  the  idea  of  the  unexpected  and  the 
changeful ;  and  it  explains,  simply  enough,  why  his  mind  could 
be  at  ease,  though  he  had  left  his  house  and  his  treasure  more 
defenseless  than  usual.  Silas  was  thinking  with  double  com- 
placency of  his  supper :  first,  because  it  would  be  hot  and  sa- 
vory ;  and  secondly,  because  it  would  cost  him  nothing.  For 
the  little  bit  of  pork  was  a  present  from  that  excellent  house- 
wife, Miss  Priscilla  Lammeter,  to  whom  he  had  this  day  car- 
ried home  a  handsome  piece  of  linen ;  and  it  was  only  on  oc- 
casion of  a  present  like  this,  that  Silas  indulged  himself  with 
roast-meat.  Supper  was  his  favorite  meal,  because  it  came  at 
his  time  of  revelry,  when  his  heart  warmed  over  his  gold ; 
whenever  he  had  roast-meat,  he  always  chose  to  have  it  for 
supper.  But  this  evening,  he  had  no  sooner  ingeniously  knot- 
ted nis  string  fast  round  his  bit  of  pork,  twisted  the  string  ac- 
cording to  rule  over  his  door-key,  passed  it  through  the  handle, 
and  made  it  fast  on  the  hanger,  than  he  remembered  that  a 
piece  of  very  fine  twine  was  indispensable  to  his  "  setting  up  " 
a  new  piece  of  work  in  his  loom  early  in  the  morning.  It  had 
slipped  his  memory,  because,  in  coming  from  Mr.  Lammeter's, 
he  had  not  had  to  pass  through  the  village  ;  but  to  lose  time 
by  going  on  errands  in  the  morning  was  out  of  the  question. 
It  was  a  nasty  fog  to  turn  out  into,  but  there  were  things  Si- 
las loved  better  than  his  own  comfort ;  so,  drawing  his  pork 
to  the  extremity  of  the  hanger,  and  arming  himself  with  his 
lantern  and  his  old  sack,  he  set  out  on  what,  in  ordinary  weath- 
er, would  have  been  a  twenty  minutes'  errand.  He  could  not 
have  locked  his  door  without  undoing  his  well-knotted  string 
and  retarding  his  supper ;  it  was  not  worth  his  while  to  make 
that  sacrifice.  What  thief  would  find  his  way  to  the  Stone- 
pits  on  such  a  night  as  this  ?  and  why  should  he  come  on  this 
particular  night,  when  he  had  never  come  through  all  the  fif- 
teen years  before  ?  These  questions  were  not  distinctly  pres- 


SILAS    MARNER.  373 

ent  in  Silas's  mind  ;  they  merely  serve  to  represent  the  vague- 
ly-felt foundation  of  his  freedom  from  anxiety. 

He  reached  his  door  in  much  satisfaction  that  his  errand 
was  done :  he  opened  it,  and  to  his  short-sighted  eyes  every 
thing  remained  as  he  had  letl  it,  except  that  the  fire  sent  out 
a  welcome  increase  of  heat.  He  trod  about  the  floor  while 
putting  by  his  lantern  and  throwing  aside  his  hat  and  sack, 
so  as  to  merge  the  marks  of  Dunstan's  feet  on  the  sand  in  the 
marks  of  his  own  nailed  boots.  Then  he  moved  his  pork 
nearer  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  to  the  agreeable  business  of 
tending  the  meat  and  warming  himself  at  the  same  time. 

Any  one  who  had  looked  at  him  as  the  red  light  shone 
upon  his  pale  face,  strange  straining  eyes,  and  meagre  form, 
would  perhaps  have  understood  the  mixture  of  contemptuous 
pity,  dread,  and  suspicion  with  which  he  was  regarded  by  his 
neighbors  in  Raveloe.  Yet  few  men  could  be  more  harmless 
than  poor  Marner.  In  his  truthful  simple  soul,  not  even  the 
growing  greed  and  worship  of  gold  could  beget  any  vice  di- 
rectly injurious  to  others.  The  light  of  his  faith  quite  put 
out,  and  his  affections  made  desolate,  he  had  clung  with  all 
the  force  of  his  nature  to  his  work  and  his  money;  and  like 
all  objects  to  which  a  man  devotes  himself,  they  had  fashion- 
ed him  into  correspondence  with  themselves.  His  loom,  as 
he  wrought  in  it  without  ceasing,  had  in  its  turn  wrought  on 
him,  and  confirmed  more  and  more  the  monotonous  craving 
for  its  monotonous  response.  His  gold,  as  he  hung  over  it 
and  saw  it  grow,  gathered  his  power  of  loving  together  into 
a  hard  isolation  like  its  own. 

As  soon  as  he  was  warm  he  began  to  think  it  would  be  a 
long  while  to  wait  till  after  supper  before  he  drew  out  his 
guineas,  and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  see  them  on  the  table  be- 
fore him  as  he  ate  his  unwonted  feast.  For  joy  is  the  best 
of  wine,  and  Silas's  guineas  were  a  golden  wine  of  that  sort. 

He  rose  and  placed  his  candle  unsuspectingly  on  the  floor 
near  his  loom,  swept  away  the  sand  without  noticing  any 
change,  and  removed  the  bricks.  The  sight  of  the  empty 
hole  made  his  heart  leap  violently,  but  the  belief  that  his  gold 
was  gone  could  not  come  at  once — only  terror,  and  the  eager 
effort  to  put  an  end  to  the  terror.  He  passed  his  trembling 
hand  all  about  the  hole,  trying  to  think  it  possible  that  his  eyes 
had  deceived  him ;  then  he  held  the  candle  in  the  hole  and  ex- 
amined it  curiously,  trembling  more  and  more.  At  last  he 
shook  so  violently  that  he  let  fall  the  candle,  and  lifted  his 
hands  to  his  head,  trying  to  steady  himself,  that  he  might 
think.  Had  he  put  his  gold  somewhere  else,  by  a  sudden 
resolution  last  night,  and  then  forgotten  it?  A  man  falling 


374  SILAS    MARNEE. 

into  dark  waters  seeks  a  momentary  footing  even  on  sliding 
stones ;  and  Silas,  by  acting  as  if  he  believed  in  false  hopes, 
warded  off  the  moment  of  despair.  He  searched  in  every 
corner,  he  turned  his  bed  over,  and  shook  it,  and  kneaded  it ; 
he  looked  in  his  brick  oven  where  he  laid  his  sticks.  When 
there  was  no  other  place  to  be  searched,  he  kneeled  down 
again  and  felt  once  more  all  round  the  hole.  There  was  no 
untried  refuge  left  for  a  moment's  shelter  from  the  terrible 
truth. 

Yes,  there  was  a  sort  of  refuge  which  always  comes  with 
the  prostration  of  thought  under  an  overpowering  passion : 
it  was  that  expectation  of  impossibilities,  that  belief  in  con- 
tradictory images,  which  is  still  distinct  from  madness,  be- 
cause it  is  capable  of  being  dissipated  by  the  external  fact. 
Silas  got  up  from  his  knees  trembling,  and  looked  round  at 
the  table :  didn't  the  gold  lie  there  after  all  ?  The  table  was 
bare.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  behind  him — looked  all 
round  his  dwelling,  seeming  to  strain  his  brown  eyes  after 
some  possible  appearance  of  the  bags  where  he  had  already 
sought  them  in  vain.  He  could  see  every  object  in  his  cot- 
tage— and  his  gold  was  not  there. 

Again  he  put  his  trembling  hands  to  his  head,  and  gave  a 
wild  ringing  scream,  the  cry  oi  desolation.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments after,  he  stood  motionless ;  but  the  cry  had  relieved 
him  from  the  first  maddening  pressure  ot  the  truth.  He  turn- 
ed, and  tottered  towards  his  loom,  and  got  into  the  seat  where 
he  worked,  instinctively  seeking  this  as  the  strongest  assur- 
ance of  reality. 

And  now  that  all  the  false  hopes  had  vanished,  and  the 
first  shock  of  certainty  was  past,  the  idea  of  a  thief  began  to 
present  itself,  and  he  entertained  it  eagerly,  because  a  thief 
might  be  caught  and  made  to  restore  the  gold.  The  thought 
brought  some  new  strength  with  it,  and  he  started  from  his 
loom  to  the  door.  As  he  opened  it  the  rain  beat  in  upon  him, 
for  it  was  falling  more  and  more  heavily.  There  were  no 
footsteps  to  be  tracked  on  such  a  night — footsteps  ?  When 
had  the  thief  come  ?  During  Silas's  absence  in  the  day-time 
the  door  had  been  locked,  and  there  had  been  no  marks  of 
any  inroad  on  his  return  by  day-light.  And  in  the  evening, 
too,  he  said  to  himself,  every  thing  was  the  same  as  when  he 
had  left  it.  The  sand  and  bricks  looked  as  if  they  had  not 
been  moved.  Was  it  a  thief  who  had  taken  the  bags  ?  or  was 
it  a  cruel  power  that  no  hands  could  reach,  which  had  delight- 
ed in  making  him  a  second  time  desolate  ?  He  shrank  from 
this  vaguer  dread,  and  fixed  his  mind  with  struggling  effort 
on  the  robber  with  hands,  who  could  be  reached  by  hands. 


SILAS   MARNER.  375 

His  thoughts  glanced  at  all  the  neighbors  who  had  made  any 
remarks,  or  asked  any  questions  which  he  might  now  regard 
as  a  ground  of  suspicion.  There  was  Jem  Rodney,  a  known 
poacher,  and  otherwise  disreputable :  he  had  often  met  Mar- 
ner  in  his  journeys  across  the  fields,  and  had  said  something 
jestingly  about  the  weaver's  money ;  nay,  he  had  once  irri- 
tated Marner,  by  lingering  at  the  fire  when  he  called  to  light 
his  pipe,  instead  of  going  about  his  business.  Jem  Rodney 
was  the  man — there  was  ease  in  the  thought.  Jem  could  be 
found  and  made  to  restore  the  money :  Marner  did  not  want 
to  punish  him,  but  only  to  get  back  his  gold  which  had  gone 
from  him,  and  left  his  soul  like  a  forlorn  traveller  on  an  un- 
known desert.  The  robber  must  be  laid  hold  of.  Marner's 
ideas  of  legal  authority  were  confused,  but  he  felt  that  he  must 
go  and  proclaim  his  loss ;  and  the  great  people  in  the  village — 
the  clergyman,  the  constable,  and  Squire  Cass — would  make 
Jem  Rodney,  or  somebody  else,  deliver  up  the  stolen  money. 
He  rushed  out  in  the  rain,  under  the  stimulus  of  this  hope, 
forgetting  to  cover  his  head,  not  caring  to  fasten  his  door;  for 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  nothing  left  to  lose.  He  ran  swiftly,  till 
want  of  breath  compelled  him  to  slacken  his  pace  as  he  was 
entering  the  village  at  the  turning  close  to  the  Rainbow. 

The  Rainbow,  in  Marner's  view,  was  a  place  of  luxurious 
resort  for  rich  and  stout  husbands,  whose  wives  had  super- 
fluous stores  of  linen  ;  it  was  the  place  where  he  was  likely 
to  find  the  powers  and  dignities  of  Raveloe,  and  where  he 
could  most  speedily  make  his  loss  public.  He  lifted  the 
latch,  and  turned  into  the  bright  bar  or  kitchen  on  the  right 
hand,  where  the  less  lofty  customers  of  the  house  were  in  the 
habit  of  assembling,  the  parlor  on  the  left  being  reserved  for 
the  more  select  society  in  which  Squire  Cass  frequently  en« 
joyed  the  double  pleasure  of  conviviality  and  condescension. 
But  the  parlor  was  dark  to-night,  the  chief  personages  who 
ornamented  its  circle  being  all  at  Mrs.  Osgood's  birthday 
dance,  as  Godfrey  Cass  was.  And  in  consequence  of  this, 
the  party  on  the  high-screened  seats  in  the  kitchen  was  more 
numerous  than  usual ;  several  personages,  who  would  other- 
wise have  been  admitted  into  the  parlor  and  enlarged  the 
opportunity  of  hectoring  and  condescension  for  their  betters, 
being  content  this  evening  to  vary  their  enjoyment  by  tak- 
ing their  spirits-and-water  where  they  could  themselves  hec- 
tor and  condescend  in  company  that  called  for  beer. 


376  SILAS  MAKNEE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  conversation,  which  was  at  a  high  pitch  of  animation 
when  Silas  approached  the  door  of  the  Rainbow,  had,  as 
usual,  been  slow  and  intermittent  when  the  company  first  as- 
sembled. The  pipes  began  to  be  puffed  in  a  silence  which 
had  an  air  of  severity;  the  more  important  customers,  who 
drank  spirits  and  sat  nearest  the  fire,  staring  at  each  other 
as  if  a  bet  were  depending  on  the  first  man  who  winked ; 
while  the  beer-drinkers,  chiefly  men  in  fustian  jackets  and 
smock-frocks,  kept  their  eyelids  down  and  rubbed  their 
hands  across  their  mouths,  as  if  their  draughts  of  beer  were 
a  funereal  duty  attended  with  embarrassing  sadness.  At 
last,  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord,  a  man  of  a  neutral  disposition,  ac- 
customed to  stand  aloof  from  human  differences,  as  those  of 
beings  who  were  all  alike  in  need  of  liquor,  broke  silence,  by 
saying  in  a  doubtful  tone  to  his  cousin  the  butcher — 

"  Some  folks  'ud  say  that  was  a  fine  beast  you  druv  in 
yesterday,  Bob  ?" 

The  butcher,  a  jolly,  smiling,  red-haired  man,  was  not  dis- 
posed to  answer  rashly.  He  gave  a  few  puffs  before  he  spat 
and  replied,  "  And  they  wouldn't  be  fur  wrong,  John." 

After  this  feeble  delusive  thaw,  the  silence  set  in  as  se- 
verely as  before. 

"  Was  it  a  red  Durham  ?"  said  the  farrier,  taking  up  the 
thread  of  discourse  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes. 

The  farrier  looked  at  the  landlord,  and  the  landlord  look- 
ed at  the  butcher,  as  the  person  who  must  take  the  respon- 
sibility of  answering. 

"Red  it  was,"  said  the  butcher,  in  his  good-humored 
husky  treble — "  and  a  Durham  it  was." 

"  Then  you  needn't  tell  me  who  you  bought  it  of,"  said 
the  farrier,  looking  round  with  some  triumph  ;  "  I  know  who 
it  is  has  got  the  red  Durhams  o'  this  country-side.  And 
she'd  a  white  star  on  her  brow,  I'll  bet  a  penny  ?"  The  far- 
rier leaned  forward  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  as  he  put 
this  question,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  knowingly. 

"  Well ;  yes — she  might,"  said  the  butcher,  slowly,  con- 
sidering that  he  was  giving  a  decided  affirmative.  "  I  don't 
say  contrairy." 

"  I  knew  that  very  well,"  said  the  farrier,  throwing  himself 
backward  again,  and  speaking  defiantly  ;  "  if /don't  know  Mr. 


SILAS    MARNER.  377 

Lammeter's  cows,  I  should  like  to  know  who  does — that's  all. 
And  as  for  the  cow  you've  bought,  bargain  or  no  bargain,  I've 
been  at  the  drenching  of  her — contradick  me  who  will." 

The  farrier  looked  fierce,  and  the  mild  butcher's  conversa- 
tional spirit  was  roused  a  little. 

"  I'm  not  for  contradicking  no  man,"  he  said ;  "  I'm  for 
peace  and  quietness.  Some  are  for  cutting  long  ribs — I'm 
for  cutting  'em  short  myself;  but  I  don't  quarrel  with  'em. 
All  I  say  is,  it's  a  lovely  carkiss — and  any  body  as  was  rea- 
sonable, it  'ud  bring  tears  into  their  eyes  to  look  at  it." 

"  Well,  it's  the  cow  as  I  drenched,  whatever  it  is,"  pur- 
sued the  farrier,  angrily ;  "  and  it  was  Mr.  Lammeter's  cow, 
else  you  told  a  lie  when  you  said  it  was  a  red  Durham." 

"  I  tell  no  lies,"  said  the  butcher,  with  the  same  mild  huski- 
ness  as  before,  "  and  I  contradick  none — not  if  a  man  was  to 
swear  himself  black :  he's  no  meat  o'  mine,  or  none  o'  my 
bargains.  All  I  say  is,  it's  a  lovely  carkiss.  And  what  I 
say  I'll  stick  to ;  but  I'll  quarrel  wi'  no  man." 

"  No,"  said  the  farrier,  with  bitter  sarcasm,  looking  at  the 
company  generally ;  "  and  p'raps  you  aren't  pig-headed ; 
and  p'raps  you  didn't  say  the  cow  was  a  red  Durham ;  and 
p'raps  you  didn't  say  she'd  got  a  star  on  her  brow — stick  to 
that,  now  you're  at  it." 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord;  "let  the  cow  alone. 
The  truth  lies  atween  you :  you're  both  right  and  both  wrong, 
as  I  allays  say.  And  as  for  the  cow's  being  Mr.  Lammeter's, 
I  say  nothing  to  that ;  but  this  I  say,  as  the  Rainbow's  the 
Rainbow.  And  for  the  matter  o'  that,  if  the  talk  is  to  be  o' 
the  Lammeters,  you  know  the  most  upo'  that  head,  eh,  Mr. 
Macey  ?  You  remember  when  first  Mr.  Lammeter's  father 
came  into  these  parts,  and  took  the  Warrens  ?" 

Mr.  Macey,  tailor  and  parish-clerk,  the  latter  of  which 
functions  rheumatism  had  of  late  obliged  him  to  share  with 
a  small-featured  young  man  who  sat  opposite  him,  held  his 
white  head  on  one  side,  and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  an  air 
of  complacency,  slightly  seasoned  with  criticism.  He  smiled 
pityingly,  in  answer  to  the  landlord's  appeal,  and  said — 

"  Ay,  ay  ;  I  know,  I  know  ;  but  I  let  other  folks  talk.  I've 
laid  by  now,  and  gev  up  to  the  young  uns.  Ask  them  as 
have  been  to  school  at  Tarley :  they've  learnt  pernouncing ; 
that's  come  up  since  my  day." 

"  If  you're  pointing  at  me,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  the  deputy- 
clerk,  with  an  air  of  anxious  propriety,  "  I'm  nowise  a  man 
to  speak  out  of  my  place.  As  the  psalm  says — 

'  I  know  what's  right,  nor  only  so, 
But  also  practise  what  I  know.' " 


378  SILAS   MARNER. 

"  Well,  then,  I  wish  you'd  keep  hold  o'  the  tune,  when  it's 
set  for  you ;  if  you're  for  prac^mng,  I  wish  you'd  practise 
that,"  said  a  large  jocose-looking  man,  an  excellent  wheel- 
wright in  his  week-day  capacity,  but  on  Sundays  leader  of  the 
choir.  He  winked,  as  he  spoke,  at  two  of  the  company,  who 
were  known  officially  as  the  "  bassoon  "  and  the  "  key-bugle," 
in  the  confidence  that  he  was  expressing  the  sense  of  the 
musical  profession  in  Raveloe. 

Mr.  Tookey,  the  deputy-clerk,  who  shared  the  unpopulari- 
ty common  to  deputies,  turned  very  red,  but  replied,  with 
careful  moderation — "  Mr.  Winthrop,  if  you'll  bring  me  any 
proof  as  I'm  in  the  wrong,  I'm  not  the  man  to  say  I  won't 
alter.  But  there's  people  set  up  their  own  ears  for  a  stand- 
ard, and  expect  the  whole  choir  to  follow  'em.  There  may 
be  two  opinions,  I  hope." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  who  felt  very  well  satisfied 
with  this  attack  on  youthful  presumption ;  "  you're  right 
there,  Tookey  :  there's  allays  two  'pinions ;  there's  the  'pin- 
ion a  man  has  of  himsen,  and  there's  the  'pinion  other  folks 
have  on  him.  There'd  be  two  'pinions  about  a  cracked  bell, 
if  the  bell  could  hear  itself." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  poor  Tookey,  serious  amidst  the 
general  laughter, "  I  undertook  to  partially  fill  up  the  office 
of  parish-clerk  by  Mr.  Crackenthorp's  desire,  whenever  your 
infirmities  should  make  you  unfitting;  and  it's  one  of  the 
rights  thereof  to  sing  in  the  choir — else  why  have  you  done 
the  same  yourself?" 

"  Ah  !  but  the  old  gentleman  and  you  are  two  folks,"  said 
Ben  Winthrop.  "  The  old  gentleman's  got  a  gift.  Why 
the  Squire  used  to  invite  him  to  take  a  glass,  only  to  hear  him 
sing  the  'Red  Rovier ;'  didn't  he,  Mr.  Macey  ?  It's  a  nat'ral 
gift.  There's  my  little  lad  Aaron,  he's  got  a  gift — he  can 
sing  a  tune  off  straight,  like  a  throstle.  But  as  for  you,  Mas- 
ter Tookey,  you'd  better  stick  to  your  '  Amens:'  your  voice 
is  well  enough  when  you  keep  it  up  in  your  nose.  It's  your 
inside  as  isn't  right  made  for  music :  it's  no  better  nor  a  hol- 
low stalk." 

This  kind  of  unflinching  frankness  was  the  most  piquant 
form  of  joke  to  the  company  at  the  Rainbow,  and  Ben  Win- 
throp's  insult  was  felt  by  every  body  to  have  capped  Mr. 
Macey's  epigram. 

"  I  see  what  it  is  plain  enough,"  said  Mr.  Tookey,  unable 
to  keep  cool  any  longer.  "  There's  a  consperacy  to  turn  me 
out  o'  the  choir,  as  I  shouldn't  share  the  Christmas  money — 
that's  where  it  is.  But  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp  ; 
I'll  not  be  put  upon  by  no  man." 


SILAS   MARNER.  379 

"  Nay,  nay,  Tookey,"  said  Ben  Winthrop.  "  We'll  pay 
you  your  share  to  keep  out  of  it — that's  Avhat  we'll  do. 
There's  things  folks  'ud  pay  to  be  rid  on,  besides  varmin." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord,  who  felt  that  paying 
people  for  their  absence  was  a  principle  dangerous  to  socie- 
ty;  "a  joke's  a  joke.  We're  all  good  friends  here,  I  hope. 
We  must  give  and  take.  You're  both  right  and  you're  both 
wrong,  as  I  say.  I  agree  with  Mr.  Macey  here,  as  there's 
two  opinions;  and  if  mine  was  asked,  I  should  say  they're 
both  right.  Tookey's  right  and  Winthrop's  right,  and  they've 
only  got  to  split  the  difference  and  make  themselves  even." 

The  farrier  was  puffing  his  pipe  rather  fiercely,  in  some 
contempt  at  this  trivial  discussion.  He  had  no  ear  for  music 
himself,  and  never  went  to  church,  as  being  of  the  medical 
profession,  and  likely  to  be  in  requisition  for  delicate  cows. 
But  the  butcher,  having  music  in  his  soul,  had  listened  with 
a  divided  desire  for  Tookey's  defeat,  and  for  the  preservation 
of  the  peace. 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  said,  following  up  the  landlord's  concili- 
atory view,  "  we're  fond  of  our  old  clerk ;  it's  nat'ral,  and 
him  used  to  be  such  a  singer,  and  got  a  brother  as  is  known 
for  the  first  fiddler  in  this  country-side.  Eh,  it's  a  pity  but 
what  Solomon  lived  in  our  village,  and  could  give  us  a  tune 
when  we  liked ;  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?  I'd  keep  him  in  liver  and 
lights  for  nothing — that  I  would." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  the  height  of  complacency ; 
"  our  family's  been  known  for  musicianers  as  far  back  as  any 
body  can  tell.  But  them  things  are  dying  out,  as  I  tell  Sol- 
omon every  time  he  comes  round ;  there's  no  voices  like 
what  there  used  to  be,  and  there's  nobody  remembers  what 
we  remember,  if  it  isn't  the  old  crows." 

"  Ay,  you  remember  when  first  Mr.  Lammeter's  father 
come  into  these  parts,  don't  you,  Mr.  Macey  ?"  said  the  land- 
lord. 

"  I  should  think  I  did,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had  now 
gone  through  that  complimentary  process  necessary  to  bring 
him  up  to  the  point  of  narration ;  "  and  a  fine  old  gentleman 
he  was — as  fine,  and  finer  nor  the  Mr.  Lammeter  as  now  is. 
He  came  from  a  bit  north'ard,  so  far  as  I  could  ever  make 
out.  But  there's  nobody  rightly  knows  about  those  parts: 
only  it  couldn't  be  far  north'ard,  nor  much  different  from 
this  country,  for  he  brought  a  fine  breed  o'  sheep  with  him, 
so  there  must  be  pastures  there,  and  every  thing  reasonable. 
We  heared  tell  as  he'd  sold  his  own  land  to  come  and  take 
the  Warrens,  and  that  seemed  odd  for  a  man  as  had  land  of 
his  own,  to  come  and  rent  a  farm  in  a  strange  place.  But 


380  SILAS   MARNER. 

they  said  it  was  along  of  his  wife's  dying ;  though  there'* 
reasons  in  things  as  nobody  knows  on — that's  pretty  much 
what  I've  made  out ;  though  some  folks  are  so  wise,  they'll 
find  -you  fifty  reasons  straight  off,  and  all  the  while  the 
real  reason's  winking  at  'em  in  the  corner,  and  they  niver 
Bee't.  Howsomever,  it  was  soon  seen  as  we'd  got  a  new 
parish'ner  as  know'd  the  rights  and  customs  o'  things,  and 
kep  a  good  house,  and  was  well  looked  on  by  every  body. 
And  the  young  man — that's  the  Mr.  Larameter  as  now  is,  for 
he'd  niver  a  sister — soon  begun  to  court  Miss  Osgood,  that's 
the  sister  o'  the  Mr.  Osgood  as  now  is,  and  a  fine  handsome 
lass  she  was — eh,  you  can't  think — they  pretend  this  young 
lass  is  like  her,  but  that's  the  way  wi'  people  as  don't  know 
what  come  before  'em.  I  should  know,  for  I  helped  the  old 
rector,  Mr.  Drumlow  as  was,  I  helped  him  marry  'em." 

Here  Mr.  Macey  paused ;  lie  always  gave  his  narrative  in 
instalments,  expecting  to  be  questioned  according  to  prece- 
dent. 

"  Ay,  and  a  partic'lar  thing  happened,  didn't  it,  Mr,  Ma- 
cey, so  as  you  were  likely  to  remember  that  marriage  ?" 
said  the  landlord,  in  a  congratulatory  tone. 

"I  should  think  there  did — a  very  partic'lar*  thing/1  said 
Mr.  Macey,  nodding  sideways.  "  For  Mr.  Drumlow— --poor 
old  gentleman,  I  was  fond  on  him,  though  he'd  got  a  bit  con- 
fused in  his  head,  what  wi'  age  and  wi'  taking  a  drop  o'  sum- 
mat  warm  when  the  service  come  of  a  cold  morning.  And 
young  Mr.  Lammeter,  he'd  have  no  way  but  he  must  be  mar- 
ried in  Janiwary,  which,  to  be  sure,  's  a  unreasonable  time 
to  be  married  in,  for  it  isn't  like  a  christening  or  a  burying, 
as  you  can't  help  ;  and  so  Mr.  Drnmlow — poor  old  gentleman, 
I  was  fond  on  him — but  when  he  come  to  put  the  questions, 
he  put  'em  by  the  rule  o'  contrairy,  like,  and  he  says,  '  Wilt 
thou  have  this  man  to  thy  wedded  wife?'  says  he,  and  then 
he  says,  '  Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy  wedded  hus- 
band ?'  says  he.  But  the  partic'larest  thing  of  all  is,  as  no- 
body took  any  notice  on  it  but  me,  and  they  answered 
straight  off '  yes,'  like  as  if  it  had  been  me  saying  '  Amen '  i' 
the  right  place,  without  listening  to  what  went  before." 

"  But  you  knew  what  was  going  on  well  enough,  didn't 
you,  Mr.  Macey  ?  You  were  live  enough,  eh  ?"  said  the 
butcher. 

"  Lor  bless  you  !"  said  Mr.  Macey,  pausing,  and  smiling 
in  pity  at  the  impotence  of  his  hearer's  imagination — *'  why, 
I  was  all  of  a  tremble;  it  was  as  if  I'd  been  a  coat  pulled  by 
the  two  tails,  like;  for  I  couldn't  stop  the  parson,  I  couldn't 
take  upon  me  to  do  that ;  and  yet  I  said  to  myself,  I  says, 


SILAS   MAENER.  381 

*  Suppose  they  shouldn't  be  fast  married,  'cause  the  words 
are  contrairy  ?'  and  my  head  went  working  like  a  mill,  for  I 
was  allays  uncommon  for  turning  things  over  and  seeing  all 
round  'em ;  and  I  says  to  myself,  '  Is't  the  meanin'  or.  the 
words  as  makes  folks  fast  i'  wedlock  ?'  For  the  parson  meant 
right,  and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  meant  right.  But  then, 
when  I  come  to  think  on  it,  meanin'  goes  but  a  little  way 
i'  most  things,  for  you  may  mean  to  stick  things  together  and 
your  glue  may  be  bad,  and  then  where  are  you?  And  so  I 
says  to  mysen, '  It  isn't  the  meanin',  it's  the  glue.'  And  I  was 
worreted  as  if  I'd  got  three  bells  to  pull  at  once,  when  we 
got  into  the  vestry,  and  they  begun  to  sign  their  names. 
But  Mihere's  the  use  o'  talking  ?  you  can't  think  what  goes 
on  in  a  'cute  man's  inside." 

"  But  you  held  in,  for  all  that,  didn't  you,  Mr.  Macey  ?"  said 
the  landlord. 

"  Ay,  I  held  in  tight  till  I  was  by  mysen  wi'  Mr.  Drumlow, 
and  then  I  out  wi'  every  thing,  but  respectful,  as  I  allays  did. 
And  he  made  light  on  it,  and  he  says, 'Pooh, pooh,  Macey, 
make  yourself1  easy,'  he  says ;  *  it's  neither  the  meaning  nor 
the  words — it's  the  rcgester  does  it — that's  the  glue.'  So 
you  see  he  settled  it  easy;  for  parsons  and  doctors  know 
every  thing  by  heart,  like,  so  as  they  aren't  worreted  wi' 
thinking  what's  the  rights  and  wrongs  o'  things,  as  I'n  been 
many  and  many's  the  time.  And  sure  enough  the  wedding 
turned  out  all  right,  on'y  poor  Mrs.  Lammetcr — that's  Miss 
Osgood  as  was — died  afore  the  lasses  were  growed  up  ;  but 
for  prosperity  and  every  thing  respectable,  there's  no  family 
more  looked  on." 

Every  one  of  Mr.  Macey's  audience  had  heard  this  story 
many  times,  but  it  was  listened  to  as  if  it  had  been  a  favor- 
ite tune,  and  at  certain  points  the  puffing  of  the  pipes  was 
momentarily  suspended,  that  the  listeners  might  give  their 
whole  minds  to  the  expected  words.  But  there  was  more 
to  come ;  and  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord,  duly  put  the  leading 
question. 

"  Why,  old  Mr.  Lammeter  had  a  pretty  fortin,  didn't  they 
say,  when  he  come  into  these  parts  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Macey ;  "  but  I  dare  say  it's  as  much 
as  this  Mr.  Lammeter  has  done  to  keep  it  whole.  For  there 
was  allays  a  talk  as  nobody  could  get  rich  on  the  Warrens: 
though  he  holds  it  cheap,  for  it's  what  they  call  Charity 
Land." 

"  Ay,  and  there's  few  folks  know  so  well  as  you  how 
it  come  to  be  Charity  Land,  eh,  Mr.  Macey?"  said  the 
butcher. 


382  SILAS    MARKER. 

"  How  should  they  ?"  said  the  old  clerk,  with  some  con- 
tempt. "  Why,  my  grandfather  made  the  grooms'  livery  for 
that  Mr.  Cliff  as  came  and  built  the  big  stables  at  the  War- 
rens* Why,  they're  stables  four  times  as  big  as  Squire  Cass's, 
for  he  thought  o'  nothing  but  bosses  and  hunting,  Cliff  didn't 
— a  Lunnon  tailor,  some  folks  said,  as  had  gone  mad  wi'  cheat- 
ing. For  he  couldn't  ride ;  lor  bless  you  !  they  said  he'd  got 
no  more  grip  o'  the  hoss  than  if  his  legs  had  been  cross  sticks ; 
my  grandfather  beared  old  Squire  Cass  say  so  many  and 
many  a  time.  But  ride  he  would  as  if  Old  Harry  had  been 
a-driving  him  ;  and  he'd  a  son,  a  lad  o'  sixteen  ;  and  nothing 
would  his  father  have  him  do,  but  he  must  ride  and  ride — 
though  the  lad  was  frighted,  they  said.  And  it  was  a  com- 
mon saying  as  the  father  wanted  to  ride  the  tailor  out  o' 
the  lad,  and  make  a  gentleman  on  him — not  but  what  I'm 
a  tailor  myself,  but  in  respect  as  God  made  me  such,  I'm 
proud  on  it,  for  '  Macey,  tailor,'  's  been  wrote  up  over  our 
door  since  afore  the  Queen's  heads  went  out  on  the  shil- 
lings. But  Cliff,  he  was  ashamed  o'  being  called  a  tailor,  and 
he  was  sore  vexed  as  his  riding  was  laughed  at,  and  nobody 
o'  the  gentlefolks  hereabouts  could  abide  him.  Howsomever, 
the  poor  lad  got  sickly  and  died,  and  the  father  didn't  live 
long  after  him,  for  he  got  queerer  nor  ever,  and  they  said  he 
used  to  go  out  i'  the  dead  o'  the  night,  wi'  a  lantern  in  his 
hand,  to  the  stables,  and  set  a  lot  o'  lights  burning,  for  he  got 
as  he  couldn't  sleep ;  and  there  he'd  stand,  cracking  his  whip 
and  looking  at  his  bosses ;  and  they  said  it  was  a  mercy  as 
the  stables  didn't  get  burnt  down  wi'  the  poor  dumb  crea- 
turs  in  'em.  But  at  last  he  died  raving,. and  they  found  as 
he'd  left  all  his  property,  Warrens  and  all,  to  a  Lunnon  Char? 
ity,  and  that's  how  the  Warrens  come  to  be  Charity  Land ; 
though,  as  for  the  stables,  Mr.  Lammeter  never  uses  'em — 
they're  out  o'  all  charicter — lor  bless  you !  if  you  was  to  set 
the  doors  a-banging  in  'em,  it  'ud  sound  like  thunder  half 
o'er  the  parish." 

"  Ay,  but  there's  more  going  on  in  the  stables  than  what 
folks  see  by  daylight,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?"  said  the  landlord. 

"  Ay,  ay ;  go  that  way  of  a  dark  night,  that's  all,"  said 
Mr.  Macey,  winking  mysteriously,  "  and  then  make  believe, 
if  you  like,  as  you  didn't  see  lights  i'  the  stables,  nor  hear 
the  stamping  o'  the  bosses,  nor  the  cracking  o'  the  whips,  and 
howling,  too,  if  it's  tow'rt  daybreak.  '  Cliff's  Holiday  '  has 
been  the  name  of  it  ever  sin'  I  were  a  boy ;  that's  to  say, 
some  said  as  it  was  the  holiday  Old  Harry  gev  him  from 
roasting,  like.  That's  what  my  father  told  me,  and  he  was  a 
reasonable  man,  though  there's  folks  nowadays  know  what 


SILAS   MARNER.  383 

happened  afore  they  were  bora  better  nor  they  know  their 
own  business." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that,  eh,  Dowlas  ?"  said  the  landlord, 
turning  to  the  farrier,  who  was  swelling  with  impatience  for 
his  cue.  "  There's  a  nut  for  you  to  crack." 

Mr.  Dowlas  was  the  negative  spirit  in  the  company,  and 
was  proud  of  his  position. 

"  Say  ?  I  say  what  a  man  should  say  as  doesn't  shut  his 
eyes  to  look  at  a  finger-post.  I  say,  as*  I'm  ready  to  wager 
any  man  ten  pound,  if  he'll  stand  out  wi'  me  any  dry  night 
in  the  pasture  before  the  "Warren  stables,  as  we  shall  neither 
see  lights  nor  hear  noises,  if  it  isn't  the  blowing  of  our  own 
noses.  That's  what  I  say,  and  I've  said  it  many  a  time  ;  but 
there's  nobody  'ull  ventur  a  ten-pun'  note  on  their  ghos'es  as 
they  make  so  sure  of." 

"  Why,  Dowlas,  that's  easy  betting,  that  is,"  said  Ben  Win- 
throp.  "  You  might  as  well  bet  a  man  as  he  wouldn't  catch 
the  rheumatise  if  he  stood  up  to  's  neck  in  the  pool  of  a  frosty 
night.  It  'ud  be  fine  fun  for  a  man  to  win  his  bet  as  he'd  catch 
the  rheumatise.  Folks  as  believe  in  Cliff's  Holiday  aren't 
a-going  to  ventur  near  it  for  a  matter  o'  ten  pound." 

"  If  Master  Dowlas  wants  to  know  the  truth  on  it,"  said  Mr. 
Macey,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  tapping  his  thumbs  together, 
"  he's  no  call  to  lay  any  bet — let  him  go  and  stan'  by  himself 
— there's  nobody  'ull  hinder  him ;  and  then  he  can  let  the 
parish'ners  know  if  they're  wrong." 

"  Thank  you  !  I'm  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  farrier,  with 
a  snort  of  scoi'n.  "  If  folks  are  fools,  it's  no  business  o'  mine. 
I  don't  want  to  make  out  the  truth  about  ghos'es :  I  know  it 
a'ready.  But  I'm  not  against  a  bet — every  thing  fair  and 
open.  Let  any  man  bet  me  ten  pound  as  I  shall  see  Cliff's 
Holiday,  and  I'll  go  and  stand  by  myself.  I  want  no  compa- 
ny. I'd  as  lief  do  it  as  I'd  fill  this  pipe." 

"  Ah,  but  who's  to  watch  you,  Dowlas,  and  see  you  do  it  ? 
That's  no  fair  bet,"  said  the  butcher. 

"  No  fair  bet  ?"  replied  Mr.  Dowlas,  angrily.  "  I  should 
like  to  hear  any  man  stand  up  and  say  I  want  to  bet  unfair. 
Come  now,  Master  Lundy,  I  should  like  to  hear  you  say 
it." 

"Very  like  you  would,"  said  the  butcher.  "But  it's  no 
business  o'  mine.  You're  none  o'  my  bargains,  and  I  aren't 
agoing  to  try  and  'bate  your  price.  If  any  body'll  bid  for 
you  at  your  own  vallying,  let  him.  I'm  for  peace  and  quiet- 
ness, I  am." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  every  yapping  cur  is,  when  you  hold  a 
stick  up  at  him,"  said  the  farrier.  "  But  I'm  afraid  o'  neither 


384  SILAS   MARNER. 

man  nor  ghost,  and  I'm  ready  to  lay  a  fair  bet — I  aren't  a 
turn-tail  cur." 

"  Ay,  but  there's  this  in  it,  Dowlas,"  said  the  landlord, 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  much  candor  and  tolerance.  "  There's 
folks,  i'  my  opinion,  they  can't  see  ghos'es,  not  if  they  stood 
as  plain  as  a  pike-staff  before  'em.  And  there's  reason  i'  that. 
For  there's  my  wife  now,  can't  smell,  not  if  she'd  the  strong- 
est o'  cheese  under  her  nose.  I  never  see'd  a  ghost  myself; 
but  then  I  says  to  myself, '  Very  like  I  haven't  got  the  smell 
for  'em.'  I  mean,  putting  a  ghost  for  a  smell,  or  else  contrai- 
riways.  And  so,  I'm  for  holding  with  both  sides ;  for,  as  I 
say,  the  truth  lies  between  'em.  And  if  Dowlas  was  to  go 
and  stand,  and  say  he'd  never  seen  a  wink  o'  Cliff's  Holiday 
all  the  night  through,  I'd  back  him ;  and  if  any  body  said  as 
Clift's  Holiday  was  certain  sure  for  all  that,  I'd  back  him  too. 
For  the  smell's  what  I  go  by." 

The  landlord's  analogical  argument  was  not  well  received 
by  the  farrier — a  man  intensely  opposed  to  compromise. 

"  Tut,  tut,"  he  said,  setting  down  his  glass  with  refreshed 
irritation ;  "  what's  the  smell  got  to  do  with  it  ?  Did  ever  a 
ghost  give  a  man  a  black  eye  ?  That's  what  I  should  like  to 
know.  If  ghos'es  want  me  to  believe  in  'em,  let  'em  leave  off 
skulking  i'  the  dark  and  i'  lone  places — let  'em  come  where 
there's  company  and  candles." 

"  As  if  ghos'es  'ud  Avant  to  be  believed  in  by  any  body  so 
ignirant  J>'  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  deep  disgust  at  the  farrier's 
crass  incompetence  to  apprehend  the  conditions  of  ghostly 
phenomena. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

YET  the  next  moment  there  seemed  to  be  some  evidence 
that  ghosts  had  a  more  condescending  disposition  than  Mr. 
Macey  attributed  to  them ;  for  the  pale  thin  figure  of  Silas 
Marner  was  suddenly  seen  standing  in  the  warm  light,  utter- 
ing no  word,  but  looking  round  at  the  company  with  his 
strange  unearthly  eyes.  The  long  pipes  gave  a  simultaneous 
movement,  like  the  antennae  of  startled  insects,  and  every 
man  present,  not  excepting  even  the  skeptical  farrier,  had  an 
impression  that  he  saw,  not  Silas  Marner  in  the  flesh,  but  an 
apparition ;  for  the  door  by  which  Silas  had  entered  was  hid- 
den by  the  high-screened  seats,  and  no  one  had  noticed  his 
approach.  Mr.  Macey,  sitting  a  long  way  off  the  ghost,  might 
be  supposed  to  have  felt  an  argumentative  triumph,  which 


SILAS  MAENER.  385 

would  lend  to  neutralize  his  share  of  the  general  alarm.  Had 
he  not  always  said  that  when  Silas  Marner  was  in  that  strange 
trance  of  his,  his  soul  went  loose  from  his  body  ?  Here  was 
the  demonstration  :  nevertheless,  on  the  whole,  he  would  have 
been  as  well  contented  without  it.  For  a  few  moments  there 
was  a  dead  silence,  Marner's  want  of  breath  and  agitation  not 
allowing  him  to  speak.  The  landlord,  under  the  habitual 
sense  that  he  was  bound  to  keep  his  house  open  to  all  compa- 
ny, and  confident  in  the  protection  of  his  unbroken  neutrality, 
at  last  took  on  himself  the  task  of  adjuring  the  ghost. 

"  Master  Marner,"  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory  tone, "  what's 
lacking  to  you  ?  What's  your  business  here  ?" 

"  Robbed  !"  said  Silas,  gaspingly.  "  I've  been  robbed  !  I 
want  the  constable— and  the  Justice — and  Squire  Cass — and 
Mr.  Crackenthorp." 

"Lay  hold  on  him,  Jem  Rodney,"  said  the  landlord, the 
idea  of  a  ghost  subsiding  ;  "  he's  off  his  head,  I  doubt.  He's 
wet  through." 

Jem  Rodney  was  the  outermost  man,  and  sat  convenient- 
ly near  Marner's  standing-place  ;  but  he  declined  to  give  his 
services. 

"  Come  and  lay  hold  on  him  yourself,  Mr.  Snell,  if  you've  a 
a  mind,"  said  Jem,  rather  sullenly.  "  He's  been  robbed,  and 
murdered  too,  for  what  I  know,"  he  added,  in  a  muttering 
tone. 

"  Jem  Rodney !"  said  Silas,  turning  and  fixing  his  strange 
eyes  on  the  suspected  man. 

"  Ay,  Master  Marner,  what  do  ye  want  wi'  me  ?"  said  Jem, 
trembling  a  little,  and  seizing  his  drinking-can  as  a  defensive 
weapon. 

"  If  it  was  you  stole  my  money,"  said  Silas,  clasping  his 
hands  entreatingly,  and  raising  his  voice  to  a  cry, "  give  ut  me 
back, — and  I  won't  meddle  with  you.  I  won't  set  the  con- 
stable on  you.  Give  it  me  back,  and  I'll  let  you — I'll  let  you 
have  a  guinea." 

"  Me  stole  your  money  !"  said  Jem,  angrily.  "  Til  pitch 
this  can  at  your  eye  if  you  talk  o'  my  stealing  your  money." 

"  Come,  come,  Master  Marner,"  said  the  landlord,  now  ris- 
ing resolutely,  and  seizing  Marner  by  the  shoulder,  "  if  you've 
got  any  information  to  lay,  speak  it  out  sensible,  and  show  as 
you're  in  your  right  mind,  if  you  expect  any  body  to  listen 
to  you.  You're  as  wet  as  a  drownded  rat.  Sit  down  and 
dry  yourself,  and  speak  straight  forrard." 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,  man,"  said  the  farrier,  who  began  to  feel 
that  he  had  not  been  quite  on  a  par  with  himself  and  the  oc- 
casion. "  Let's  have  no  more  staring  and  screaming,  else 

17 


386  SILAS   MARNEB. 

we'll  have  you  strapped  for  a  madman.  That  was  why  1 
didn't  speak  at  the  first — thinks  I,  the  man's  run  mad." 

"  Ay,  ay,  make  him  sit  down,"  said  several  voices  at  once, 
well  pleased  that  the  reality  of  ghosts  remained  still  an  open 
question. 

The  landlord  forced  Marner  to  take  off  his  coat,  and  then 
to  sit  down  on  a  chair  aloof  from  every  one  else  in  the  centre 
of  the  circle,  and  in  the  direct  rays  of  the  fire.  The  weaver, 
too  feeble  to  have  any  distinct  purpose  beyond  that  of  get- 
ting help  to  recover  his  money,  submitted  unresistingly.  The 
transient  fears  of  the  company  were  now  forgotten  in  their 
strong  curiosity,  and  all  faces  were  turned  towards  Silas, 
when  the  landlord,  having  seated  himself  again,  said — 

"  Now  then,  Master  Marner,  what's  this  you've  got  to  say, 
as  you've  been  robbed?  Speak  out." 

"He'd  better  not  say  again  as  it  was  me  robbed  him," 
cried  Jem  Rodney,  hastily.  "  What  could  I  ha'  done  with 
his  money  ?  I  could  as  easy  steal  the  parson's  surplice,  and 
wear  it." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Jem,  and  let's  hear  what  he's  got  to 
say,"  said  the  landlord.  "  Now  then,  Master  Marner." 

Silas  now  told  his  story  under  frequent  questioning,  as  the 
mysterious,  character  of  the  robbery  became  evident. 

This  strangely  novel  situation  of  opening  his  trouble  to 
his  Raveloe  neighbors,  of  sitting  in  the  warmth  of  a  hearth 
not  his  own,  and  feeling  the  presence  of  faces  and  voices 
which  were  his  nearest  promise  of  help,  had  doubtless  its  in- 
fluence on  Marner,  in  spite  of  his  passionate  preoccupation 
with  his  loss.  Our  consciousness  rarely  registers  the  begin- 
ning of  a  growth  within  us  any  more  than  without  us:  there 
have  been  many  circulations  of  the  sap  before  we  detect 
the  smallest  sign  of  the  bud. 

The  slight  suspicion  with  which  his  hearers  at  first  listen- 
ed .to  him,  gradually  melted  away  before  the  convincing 
simplicity  of  his  distress  :  it  was  impossible  for  the  neighbors 
to  doubt  that  Marner  was  telling  the  truth,  not  because  they 
were  capable  of  arguing  at  once  from  the  nature  of  his  state- 
ments to  the  absence  of  any  motive  for  making  them  falsely, 
but  because,  as  Mr.  Macey  observed, "  Folks  as  had  the  devil 
to  back  'em  were  not  likely  to  be  so  mushed  "  as  poor  Silas 
was.  Rather,  from  the  strange  fact  that  the  robber  had  left 
no  traces,  and  had  happened  to  know  the  nick  of  time,  utterly 
incalculable  by  mortal  agents,  when  Silas  would  go  away 
from  home  without  locking  his  door,  the  more  probable  con- 
clusion seemed  to  be  that  his  disreputable  intimacy  in  that 
quarter,  if  it  ever  existed,  had  been  broken  up,  and  that,  in 


SILAS    MARVER.  387 

consequence,  this  ill  turn  had  been  done  to  Marner  by  gome- 
body  it  was  quite  in  vain  to  set  the  constable  after.  Why 
this  preternatural  felon  should  be  obliged  to  wait  till  the 
door  was  left  unlocked,  was  a  question  which  did  not  present 
itself. 

"  It  isn't  Jem  Rodney  as  has  done  this  work,  Master  Mar- 
ner," said  the  landlord.  "You  mustn't  be  a-casting  your 
eye  at  poor  Jem.  There  may  be  a  bit  of  a  reckoning  against 
Jem  for  the  matter  of  a  hare  or  so,  if  any  body  was  bound  to 
keep  their  eyes  staring  open,  and  niver  to  wink — but  Jem's 
been  a-sitting  here  drinking  his  can,  like  the  decentest  man 
i'  the  parish,  since  before  you  left  your  house,  Master  Marner, 
by  your  oAvn  account." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey ;  "  let's  have  no  accusing  o'  the 
innicent.  That  isn't  the  law.  There  must  be  folks  to  swear 
again'  a  man  before  he  can  be  ta'en  up.  Let's  have  no  ac- 
cusing o'  the  innicent,  Master  Marner." 

Memory  was  not  so  utterly  torpid  in  Silas  that  it  could 
not  be  wakened  by  these  words.  With  a  movement  of  com- 
punction as  new  and  strange  to  him  as  every  thing  else  with- 
in the  last  hour,  he  started  from  his  chair  and  went  close  up 
to  Jem,  looking  at  him  as  if  he  wanted  to  assure  himself  of 
the  expression  in  his  face. 

"  I  was  wrong,"  he  said  — "  yes,  yes  —  I  ought  to  have 
thought.  There's  nothing  to  witness  against  you,  Jem. 
Only  you'd  been  into  my  house  oftener  than  any  body  else, 
and  so  you  came  into  my  head.  I  don't  accuse  you — I  won't 
accuse  any  body — only,"  he  added,  lifting  up  his  hands  to  his 
head,  and  turning  away  with  bewildered  misery,  "  I  try — 1 
try  to  think  where  my  money  can  be." 

"  Ay,  ay,  they're  gone  where  it's  hot  enough  to  melt  'em, 
I  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Macey. 

"Tchuh  !"  said  the  farrier.  And  then  he  asked,  with  a 
cross-examining  air,  "  How  much  money  might  there  be  in 
the  bags,  Master  Marner  ?" 

"  Two  hundred  and  seventy-two  pounds,  twelve  and  six- 
pence, last  night  when  I  counted  it,"  said  Silas,  seating  him- 
self again,  with  a  groan. 

"  Pooh !  why,  they'd  be  none  so  heavy  to  carry.  Some 
tramp's  been  in,  that's  all ;  and  as  for  the  no  footmarks,  and 
the  bricks  and  the  sand  being  all  right — why,  your  eyes  are 
pretty  much  like  a  insect's,  Master  Marner  ;  they're  obliged 
to  look  so  close,  you  can't  see  much  at  a  time.  It's  my  opin- 
ion as,  if  I'd  been  you,  or  you'd  been  me — for  it  comes  to  the 
same  thing — you  wouldn't  have  thought  you'd  found  every 
thing  as  you  left  it.  But  what  I  vote  is,  as  two  of  the  sen- 


388  SILAS   MAKNER. 

siblest  o'  the  company  should  go  with  you  to  Master  Kench, 
the  constable's — he's  ill  i'  bed,  I  know  that  much — and  get 
him  to  appoint  one  of  us  his  deppity ;  for  that's  the  la\v, 
and  I  don't  think  any  body  'nil  take  upon  him  to  contradick 
me  there.  It  isn't  much  of  a  walk  to  Kench's ;  and  then  if 
it's  me  as  is  deppity,  I'll  go  back  with  you,  Master  Marner, 
and  examine  your  primises;  and  if  any  body's  got  any  fault 
to  find  with  that,  I'll  thank  him  to  stand  up  and  say  it  out 
like  a  man." 

By  this  pregnant  speech  the  farrier  had  i*e-established  his 
self-complacency,  and  waited  with  confidence  to  hear  himself 
named  as  one  of  the  superlatively  sensible  men. 

"  Let  us  see  how  the  night  is,  though,"  said  the  landlord, 
who  also  considered  himself  personally  concerned  in  this 
proposition.  "  Why  it  rains  heavy  still,"  he  said,  returning 
from  the  door. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  the  man  to  be  afraid  o'  the  rain,"  said  the 
farrier.  "  For  it'll  look  bad  when  Justice  Malam  hears  as  re- 
spectable men  like  us  had  a  information  laid  before  'em  and 
took  no  steps." 

The  landlord  agreed  with  this  view,  and  after  taking  the 
sense  of  the  company,  and  duly  rehearsing  a  small  ceremony 
known  in  high  ecclesiastical  Hie  as  the  nolo  episcopari,  he  con- 
sented to  take  on  himself  the  chill  dignity  of  going  to  Kench's. 
But  to  the  farrier's  strong  disgust,  Mr.  Macey  now  started  an 
objection  to  his  proposing  himself  as  a  deputy-constable ;  for 
that  oracular  old  gentleman,  claiming  to  know  the  law,  stated, 
as  a  fact  delivered  to  him  by  his  father,  that  no  doctor  could 
l>e  a  constable. 

"  And  you're  a  doctor,  I  reckon,  though  you're  only  a 
cow-doctor — for  a  fly's  a  fly,  though  it  may  be  a  hoss-fly,"  con- 
cluded Mr.  Macey,  wondering  a  little  at  his  own  "  'cute- 
ness." 

There  was  a  hot  debate  upon  this,  the  farrier  being  of 
course  indisposed  to  renounce  the  quality  of  doctor,  but  con- 
tending that  a  doctor  could  be  a  constable  if  he  liked — the  law 
meant,  he  needn't  be  one  if  he  didn't  like.  Mr.  Macey  thought 
this  was  nonsense,  since  the  law  was  not  likely  to  be  fonder 
of  doctors  more  than  of  other  folks.  Moreover,  if  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  doctors  more  than  of  other  men  not  to  like  being 
constables,  how  came  Mr.  Dowlas  to  be  so  eager  to  act  in  that 
capacity  ? 

"/don't  want  to  act  the  constable,"  said  the  farrier,  driven 
into  a  corner  by  this  merciless  reasoning ;  "  and  there's  no 
man  can  say  it  of  me,  if  he'd  tell  the  truth.  But  if  there's  to 
be  any  jealousy  and  envying  about  going  to  Kench's  in  the 


SILAS   MAKNER.  889 

rain,  let  them  go  as  like  it — you  won't  get  me  to  go,  I  can  tell 
you." 

By  the  landlord's  intervention,  however,  the  dispute  was 
accommodated.  Mr.  Dowlas  consented  to  go  as  a  second 
person  disinclined  to  act  officially ;  and  so  poor  Silas,  furnish- 
ed with  some  old  coverings,  turned  out  with  his  two  com- 
panions into  the  rain  again,  thinking  of  the  long  night-hours 
before  him,  not  as  those  do  who  long  to  rest,  but  as  those 
who  expect  to  "  watch  for  ihe  morning." 


CHAPTER 

WHEN  Godfrey  Cass  returned  from  Mrs.  Osgood's  party  at 
midnight,  he  was  not  much  surprised  to  learn  that  Dunsey 
had  not  come  home.  Perhaps  he  had  not  sold  Wildfire,  and 
was  waiting  for  another  chance — perhaps,  on  that  foggy 
afternoon,  he  had  preferred  housing  himself  at  the  Red  Lion 
at  Batherley  for  the  night,  if  the  run  had  kept  him  in  that 
neighborhood ;  for  he  was  not  likely  to  feel  much  concern 
about  leaving  his  brother  in  suspense.  Godfrey's  mind  was 
too  full  of  Nancy  Lammeter's  looks  and  behavior,  too  full  of 
the  exasperation  against  himself  and  his  lot,  which  the  sight 
of  her  always  produced  in  him,  for  him  to  give  much  thought 
to  Wildfire,  or  to  the  probabilities  of  Dunstan's  conduct. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  excited  by  the 
story  of  the  robbery,  and  Godfrey,  like  every  one  else,  was 
occupied  in  gathering  and  discussing  news  about  it,  and  in 
visiting  the  Stone-pits.  The  rain  had  washed  away  all  pos- 
sibility of  distinguishing  footmarks,  but  a  close  investigation 
of  the  spot  had  disclosed,  in  the  direction  opposite  to  the  vil- 
lage, a  tinder-box,  with  a  flint  and  steel,  half  sunk  in  the  mud. 
It  was  not  Silas's  tinder-box,  for  the  only  one  he  had  ever  had 
was  still  standing  on  his  shelf;  and  the  inference  generally 
accepted  was,  that  the  tinder-box  in  the  ditch  was  somehow 
connected  with  the  robbery.  A  small  minority  shook  their 
heads,  and  intimated  their  opinion  that  it  was  not  a  robbery 
to  have  much  light  thrown  on  it  by  tinder-boxes,  that  Master 
Marner's  tale  had  a  queer  look  Avith  it,  and  that  such  things 
had  been  known  as  a  man's  doing  himself  a  mischief,  and 
then  setting  the  justice  to  look  for  the  doer.  But  when 
questioned  closely  as  to  their  grounds  for  this  opinion,  and 
what  Master  Marner  had  to  gain  by  such  false  pretenses, 
they  only  shook  their  heads  as  before,  and  observe'.!  that 


390  SILAS   MARNER. 

there  was  no  knowing  what  some  folks  counted  gain ;  more- 
over, that  every  body  had  a  right  to  their  own  opinions, 
grounds  or  no  grounds,  and  that  the  weaver,  as  every  body 
knew,  was  partly  crazy.  Mr.  Macey,  though  he  joined  in  the 
defense  of  Marner  against  all  suspicions  of  deceit,  also  pooh- 
poohed  the  tinder-box  ;  indeed,  repudiated  it  as  a  rather  im- 
pious suggestion,  tejiding  to  imply  that  every  thing  must  be 
done  by  human  hands,  and  that  there  was  no  power  which 
could  make  away  with  the  guineas  without  moving  the 
bricks.  Nevertheless,  he  turned  round  rather  sharply  on  Mr. 
Tookey,  when  the  zealous  deputy,  feeling  that  this  was  a 
view  of  the  case  peculiarly  suited  to  a  parish-clerk,  carried  it 
still  farther,  and  doubted  whether  it  was  right  to  inquire  into 
a  robbery  at  all  when  the  circumstances  were  so  myste- 
rious. 

"  As  if,"  concluded  Mr.  Tookey — "  as  if  there  was  nothing 
but  what  could  be  made  out  by  justices  and  constables." 

"  Now,  don't  you  be  for  overshooting  the  mark,  Tookey," 
said  Mr.  Maccy,  nodding  his  head  aside  admonishingly. 
"That's  what  your  allays  at;  if  I  throw  a  stone  and  hit,  you 
think  there's  summat  better  than  hitting,  and  you  try  to 
throw  a  stone  beyond.  What  I  said  was  against  the  tinder- 
box:  I  said  nothing  against  justices  and  constables,  for 
they're  o'  King  George's  making,  and  it  'ud  be  ill-becoming 
a  man  in  a  parish  office  to  fly  out  again'  King  George." 

While  these  discussions  were  going  on  amongst  the  group 
outside  the  Rainbow,  a  higher  consultation  was  being  earned 
on  within,  under  the  presidency  of  Mr.  Crnckenthorp,  the  rec- 
tor, assisted  by  Squire  Cass,  and  other  substantial  parishioners. 
It  had  just  occurred  to  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord — he  being,  as 
he  observed,  a  man  accustomed  to  put  two  and  two  together 
— to  connect  with  the  tinder-box,  which,  as  deputy  constable, 
he  himself  had  had  the  honorable  distinction  of  finding,  cer- 
tain recollections  of  a  peddler  who  had  called  to  drink  at  the 
house  about  a  month  before,  and  had  actually  stated  that  he 
carried  a  tinder-box  about  with  him  to  light  his  pipe.  Here, 
surely,  was  a  clue  to  be  followed  out.  And  as  memory, 
when  duly  impregnated  with  ascertained  facts,  is  sometimes 
surprisingly  fertile,  Mr.  Snell  gradually  recovered  a  vivid  im- 
pression of  the  effect  produced  on  him  by  the  peddler's  coun- 
tenance and  conversation.  He  had  a  "  look  with  his  eye " 
which  fell  unpleasantly  on  Mr.  Snell's  sensitive  organism.  To 
be  sure,  he  didn't  say  any  thing  particular — no,  except  that 
about  the  tinder-box — but  it  isn't  what  a  man  savs,  it's  the 
way  he  says  it.  Moreover,  he  had  a  swarthy  foreignness  of 
complexion,  which  boded  little  honesty. 


SILAS   MABNEB.  391 

"  Did  he  wear  ear-rings  ?"  Mr.  Crackenthorp  wished  to 
know,  having  some  acquaintance  with  foreign  customs. 

"  Well — stay — let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Snell,  like  a  docile 
clairvoyante,  who  would  really  not  make  'a  mistake  if  she 
could  help  it.  After  stretching  the  corners  of  his  mouth  and 
contracting  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  see  the  ear-rings, 
lie  appeared  to  give  up  the  effort,  and  said,  "  Well,  he'd  got 
ear-rings  in  his  box  to  sell,  so  it's  nat'ral  to  suppose  he  might 
wear  'em.  But  he  called  at  every  house,  a'most,  in  the  vil- 
lage: there's  somebody  else,  mayhap,  saw  'em  in  his  ears, 
though  I  can't  take  upon  me  rightly  to  say." 

Mr.  Snell  was  correct  in  his  surmise,  that  somebody  else 
would  remember  the  peddler's  ear-rings.  For,  on  the  spread 
of  inquiry  among  the  villagers,  it  was  stated  with  gathering 
emphasis,  that  the  parson  had  wanted  to  know  whether  the 
peddler  wore  ear-rings  in  his  ears,  and  an  impression  was 
created  that  a  great  deal  depended  on  the  eliciting  of  this 
fact.  Of  course,  every  one  who  heard  the  question,  not  hav- 
ing any  distinct  image  of  the  peddler  as  without  ear-rings, 
immediately  had  an  image  of  him  with  ear-rings,  larger  or 
smaller,  as  the  case  might  be ;  and  the  image  was  presently 
taken  for  a  vivid  recollection,  so  that  the  glazier's  wife,  a 
well-intentioned  woman,  not  given  to  lying,  and  whose  house 
was  among  the  cleanest  in  the  village,  was  ready  to  declare, 
as  sure  as  ever  she  meant  to  take  the  sacrament  the  very 
next  Christmas  that  was  ever  coming,  that  she  had  seen  big 
ear-rings,  in  the  shape  of  the  young  moon,  in  the  peddler's 
two  ears ;  while  Jinny  Gates,  the  cobbler's  daughter,  being 
a  more  imaginative  person,  stated  not  only  that  she  had  seen 
them  too,  but  that  they  had  made  her  blood  creep,  as  it  did 
at  that  very  moment  while  there  she  stood. 

Also,  by  way  of  throwing  further  light  on  this  clue  of  the 
tinder-box,  a  collection  was  made  of  all  the  articles  purchased 
from  the  peddler  at  various  houses,  and  carried  to  the  Rain- 
bow to  be  exhibited  there.  In  fact,  there  Avas  a  general  feel- 
ing in  the  village,  that  for  the  clearing-up  of  this  robbery 
there  must  be  a  great  deal  done  at  the  Rainbow,  and  that  no 
man  need  offer  his  wife  an  excuse  for  going  there  while  it 
was  the  scene  of  severe  public  duties. 

Some  disappointment  was  felt,  and  perhaps  a  little  indig- 
nation also,  when  it  became  known  that  Silas  Marner,  on  be- 
ing questioned  by  the  Squire  and  the  parson,  had  retained  no 
other  recollection  of  the  peddler  than  that  he  had  called  at 
his  door,  but  had  not  entered  his  house,  having  turned  away 
at  once  when  Silas,  holding  the  door  ajar,  had  said  that  he 
wanted  nothing.  This  had  been  Silas's  testimony,  though  he 


392  SILAS   MARNEK. 

clutched  strongly  at  the  idea  of  the  peddler's  being  the  cul- 
prit, if  only  because  it  gave  him-  a  definite  image  of  a  where- 
about for  his  gold,  after  it  had  been  taken  away  from  its  hid- 
ing-place :  he  could  see  it  now  in  the  peddler's  box.  But  it 
was  observed  with  some  irritation  in  the  village,  that  any 
body  but  a  "  blind  creatur  "  like  Marner  would  have  seen  the 
man  prowling  about,  for  how  came  he  to  leave  his  tinder-box 
in  the  ditch  close  by,  if  he  hadn't  been  lingering  there  ? 
Doubtless,  he  had  made  his  observations  when  he  saw  Mar- 
ner at  the  door.  Any  body  might  know — and  only  look  at 
him — that  the  weaver  was  a  half-crazy  miser.  It  was  a  won- 
der  the  peddler  hadn't  murdered  him;  men  of  that  sort,  with 
rings  in  their  ears,  had  been  known  for  murderers  often  and 
often ;  there  had  been  one  tried  at  the  'sizes,  not  so  long  ago 
but  what  there  were  people  living  who  remembered  it. 

Godfrey  Cass,  indeed,  entering  the  Rainbow  during  one 
of  Mr.  Snell's  frequently  repeated  recitals  of  his  testimony, 
had  treated  it  lightly,  stating  that  he  himself  had  bought  a 
penknife  of  the  peddler,  and  thought  him  a  merry  grinning 
fellow  enough  ;  it  was  all  nonsense,  he  said,  about  the  man's 
evil  looks.  But  this  was  spoken  of  in  the  village  as  the  random 
talk  of  youth, "  as  if  it  was  only  Mr.  Snell  who  had  seen  some- 
thing odd  about  the  peddler !  On  the  contrary,  there  were 
at  least  half  a  dozen  who  were  ready  to  go  before  Justice 
Malam,  and  give  in  much  more  striking  testimony  than  any 
the  landlord  could  furnish.  It  was  to  be  hoped  Mr.  Godfrey 
would  not  go  to  Tarley  and  throw  cold  water  on  what  Mr. 
Snell  said  there,  and  so  prevent  the  justice  from  drawing  up 
a  warrant.  He  was  suspe<?ted  of  intending  this,  when,  after 
mid-day,  he  was  seen  setting  oif  on  horseback  in  the  direction 
of  Tarley. 

But  by  this  time  Godfrey's  interest  in  the  robbery  had 
faded  before  his  growing  anxiety  about  Dunstan  and  Wild- 
fire, and  he  was  going,  not  to  Tarley,  but  to  Batherley,  una- 
ble to  rest  in  uncertainty  about  them  any  longer.  The  pos- 
sibility that  Dunstan  had  played  him  the  ugly  trick  of  riding 
away  with  Wildfire,  to  return  at  the  end  of  a  month,  when 
he  had  gambled  away  or  otherwise  squandered  the  price  of 
the  horse,  was  a  fear  that  urged  itself  upon  him  more,  even, 
then  the  thought  of  an  accidental  injury ;  and  now  that  the 
dance  at  Mrs.  Osgood's  was  past,  he  was  irritated  with  him- 
self that  he  had  trusted  his  horse  to  Dunstan.  Instead  of 
trying  to  still  his  fears,  he  encouraged  them,  with  that  super- 
stitious impression  which  clings  to  us  all,  that  if  we  expect 
evil  very  strongly  it  is  the  less  likely  to  come ;  and  when  he 
heard  a  horse  approaching  at  a  trot,  and  saw  a  hat  rising 


SILAS    MARNEU.  393 

above  a  hedge  beyond  an  angle  of  the  lane,  he  felt  as  if  his 
conjuration  had  succeeded.  But  no  sooner  did  the  horse 
come  within  sight,  than  his  heart  sank  again.  It  was  not 
Wildfire ;  and  in  a  few  moments  more  he  discerned  that  the 
rider  was  not  Dunstan,  but  Bryce,  who  pulled  up  to  speak, 
with  a  face  that  implied  something  disagreeable. 

"Well,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that's  a  lucky  brother  of  yours,  that 
Master  Dunsey,  isn't  he  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Godfrey,  hastily. 

"  Why,  hasn't  he  been  home  yet  ?"  said  Bryce. 

"  Home  ?  no.  What  has  happened  ?  Be  quick.  What 
has  he  done  with  my  horse  ?" 

"  Ah,  I  thought  it  was  yours,  though  he  pretended  you  had 
parted  with  it  to  him." 

"  Has  he  thrown  him  down  and  broken  his  knees  ?"  said 
Godfrey,  flushed  with  exasperation. 

"  Worse  than  that,"  said  Bryce.  "  You  see,  I'd  made  a 
bargain  with  him  to  buy  the  horse  for  a  hundred  and  twenty 
— a  swinging  price,  but  I  always  liked  the  horse.  And  what 
does  he  do  but  go  and  stake  him — fly  at  a  hedge  with  stakes 
in  it,  atop  of  a  bank  with  a  ditch  before  it.  The  horse  had 
been  dead  a  pretty  good  while  when  he  was  found.  So  he 
hasn't  been  home  since,  has  he  ?" 

"Home?  no,"  said  Godfrey,  "and  he'd  better  keep  away. 
Confound  me  for  a  fool !  I  might  have  known  this  would  be 
the  end  of  it." 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Bryce,  "  after  I'd  bar- 
gained for  the  horse,  it  did  come  into  my  head  that  he  might 
be  riding  and  selling  the  horse  without  your  knowledge,  for  I 
didn't  believe  it  was  his  own.  I  knew  Master  Dunsey  was 
up  to  his  tricks  sometimes.  But  where  can  he  be  gone  ?  He's 
never  been  seen  at  Batherley.  He  couldn't  have  been  hurt, 
for  he  must  have  walked  off." 

"  Hurt  ?"  said  Godfrey, bitterly.  "He'll  never  be  hurt- 
he's  made  to  hurt  other  people." 

"  And  so  you  did  give  him  leave  to  sell  the  horse,  eh  ?" 
said  Bryce. 

"  Yes ;  I  wanted  to  part  with  the  horse — he  was  always  a 
little  too  hard  in  the  mouth  for  me,"  said  Godfrey;  his  pride 
making  him  wince  under  the  idea  that  Bryce  guessed  the  sale 
to  be  a  matter  of  necessity.  "I  was  going  to  see  after  him 
— I  thought  some  mischief  had  happened.  I'll  go  back  now," 
he  added,  turning  the  horse's  head,  and  wishing  he  could  get 
rid  of  Bryce ;  for  he  felt  that  the  long-dreaded  crisis  in  his 
life  was  close  upon  him.  "You're  coining  on  to  Raveloe, 
aren't  you  ?" 


394  SILAS   MARNER. 

"  Well,  no,  not  now,"  said  Bryce.  "  I  was  coming  round 
there,  for  I  had  to  go  to  Flitton,  and  I  thought  I  might  as  well 
take  you  in  my  way,  and  just  let  you  know  all  I  knew  myself 
about  the  horse.  I  suppose  Master  Dunsey  didn't  like  to 
show  himself  till  the  ill  news  had  blown  over  a  bit.  He's  per- 
haps gone  to  pay  a  visit  at  the  Three  Crowns,  by  Whitbridge 
— I  know  he's  fond  of  the  house." 

"  Perhaps  he  is,"  said  Godfrey,  rather  absently.  Then 
rousing  himself,  he  said,  with  an  effort  at  carelessness, "  We 
shall  hear  of  him  soon  enough,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  Well,  here's  my  turning,"  said  Bryce,  not  surprised  to  per- 
ceive that  Godfrey  was  rather  '  down  ;'  "  so  I'll  bid  you  good- 
day,  and  wish  I  may  bring  you  better  news  another  time." 

Godfrey  rode  along  slowly,  representing  to  himself  the 
Bcene  of  confession  to  his  father  from  which  he  felt  that  there 
was  now  no  longer  any  escape.  The  revelation  about  the 
money  must  be  made  the  very  next  morning  ;  and  if  he  with- 
held the  rest,  Dunstan  would  be  sure  to  come  back  shortly, 
and,  finding  that  he  must  bear  the  brunt  of  his  father's  anger, 
would  tell  the  whole  story  out  of  spite,  even  though  he  had 
nothing  to  gain  by  it.  There  was  one  step,  perhaps,  by  which 
he  might  still  win  Dunstan's  silence  and  put  off  the  evil  day : 
he  might  tell  his  father  that  he  had  himself  spent  the  money 
paid  to  him  by  Fowler ;  and  as  he  had  never  been  guilty  of 
such  an  offense  before,  the  affair  would  blow  over  after  a  little 
storming.  But  Godfrey  could  not  bend  himself  to  this.  He 
felt  that  in  letting  Dunstan  have  the  money,  he  had  already 
been  guilty  of  a  breach  of  trust  hardly  less  culpable  than  that 
of  spending  the  money  directly  for  his  own  behoof;  and  yet 
there  was  a  distinction  between  the  two  acts  which  made  him 
feel  that  the  one  was  so  much  more  blackening  than  the  oth- 
er as  to  be  intolerable  to  him. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  good  fellow,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"  but  I'm  not  a  scoundrel — at  least,  I'll  stop  short  somewhere. 
I'll  bear  the  consequences  of  what  I  have  done,  sooner  than 
make  believe  I've  done  what  I  never  would  have  done.  I'd 
never  have  spent  the  money  for  my  own  pleasure — I  was  tor- 
tured into  it." 

Through  the  remainder  of  this  day  Godfrey,  with  only  occa- 
sional fluctuations,  kept  his  will  bent  in  the  direction  of  a  com- 
plete avowal  to  his  father,  and  he  withheld  the  story  of  Wild- 
fire's loss  till  the  next  morning,  that  it  might  serve  him  as  an 
introduction  to  heavier  matter.  The  old  Squire  was  accustom- 
ed to  his  son's  frequent  absence  from  home,  and  thought  nei- 
ther Dunstan's  nor  Wildfire's  non-appearance  a  matter  calling 
for  remark.  Godfrey  said  to  himself  again  and  again,  that  if 


SILAS    MARKER.  395 

he  let  slip  this  one  opportunity  of  confession,  he  might  never 
have  another ;  the  revelation  might  be  made  even  in  a  more 
odious  way  than  by  Dunstan's  malignity  :  she  might  come  as 
she  had  threatened  to  do.  And  then  he  tried  to  make  the 
scene  easier  to  himself  by  rehearsal :  he  made  up  his  mind  how 
he  would  pass  from  the  admission  of  his  weakness  in  letting 
Dunstan  have  the  money  to  the  fact  that  Dunstan  had  a  hold 
on  him  which  he  had  been  unable  to  shake  off,  and  how  he 
wrould  work  up  his  father  to  expect  something  very  bad  before 
he  told  him  the  fact.  The  old  bquire  was  an  implacable  man : 
he  made  resolutions  in  violent  anger,  but  lie  was  not  to  be 
moved  from  them  after  his  anger  had  subsided — as  fiery  vol- 
canic matters  cool  and  harden  into  rock.  Like  many  violent 
and  implacable  men,  he  allowed  evils  to  grow  under  favor  of 
his  own  heedlessness,  till  they  pressed  upon  him  with  exas- 
perating force,  and  then  he  turned  round  with  fierce  severity 
and  became  unrelentingly  hard.  This  was  his  system  with 
his  tenants  :  he  allowed  them  to  get  into  arrears,  neglect  their 
fences,  reduce  their  stock,  sell  their  straw,  and  otherwise  go 
the  wrong  way, — and  then,  when  he  became  short  of  money 
in  consequence  of  this  indulgence,  he  took  the  hardest  meas- 
ures and  would  listen  to  no  appeal.  Godfrey  knew  all  this, 
and  felt  it  with  the  greater  force  because  he  had  constantly 
suffered  annoyance  from  witnessing  his  father's  sudden  fits  of 
unrelentingness,  for  which  his  own  habitual  irresolution  de- 
prived him  of  all  sympathy.  (He  was  not  critical  on  the 
faulty  indulgence  which  preceded  these  fits ;  that  seemed  to 
him  natural  enough.)  Still  there  was  just  the  chance,  Godfrey 
thought,  that  his  father's  pride  might  see  this  marriage  in  a 
light  that  would  induce  him  to  hush  it  up,  rather  than  turn  his 
son  out  and  make  the  family  the  talk  of  the  country  for  ten 
miles  round. 

This  was  the  view  of  the  case  that  Godfrey  managed  to 
keep  before  him  pretty  closely  till  midnight,  and  he  went  to 
sleep  thinking  that  he  had  done  with  inward  debating.  But 
when  he  awoke  in  the  still  morning  darkness  he  found  it  impos- 
sible to  re-awaken  his  evening  thoughts  ;  it  was  as  if  they  had 
been  tired  out  and  were  not  to  be  roused  to  further  work. 
Instead  of  arguments  for  confession,  he  could  now  feel  the 
presence  of  nothing  but  its  evil  consequences :  the  old  dread 
of  disgrace  came  back — the  old  shrinking  from  the  thought 
of  raising  a  hopeless  barrier  between  himself  and  Nancy — the 
old  disposition  to  rely  on  chances  which  might  be  favorable 
to  him,  and  save  him  from  betrayal.  Why,  after  all,  should 
he  cut  off  the  hope  of  them  by  his  own  act  ?  He  had  seen  the 
matter  in  a  wrong  light  yesterday.  He  had  been  in  a  rage 


396  SILAS    MAKNEK. 

with  Dunstan,  and  had  thought  of  nothing  but  a  thorough 
break-up  of  their  mutual  understanding  ;  but  what  it  would 
be  really  wisest  for  him  to  do,  was  to  try  and  soften  his  father's 
anger  against  Dunsey,  and  keep  things  as  nearly  as  possible 
in  their  old  condition.  If  Dunsey  did  not  come  back  for  a 
few  days  (and  Godfrey  did  not  know  but  that  the  rascal  had 
enough  money  in  his  pocket  to  enable  him  to  keep  away  still 
longer),  every  thing  might  blow  over. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

GODFREY  rose  and  took  his  own  breakfast  earlier  than  usual, 
but  lingered  in  the  wainscoted  parlor  till  his  younger  brothers 
had  finished  their  meal  and  gone  out,  awaiting  his  father,  who 
always  went  out  and  had  a  walk  with  his  managing-man  be- 
fore breakfast.  Every  one  breakfasted  at  a  different  hour  in 
the  Red  House,  and  the  Squire  was  always  the  latest,  giving 
a  long  chance  to  a  rather  feeble  morning  appetite  before  he 
tried  it.  The  table  had  been  spread  with  substantial  eatables 
nearly  two  hours  before  he  presented  himself — a  tall,  stout 
man  of  sixty,  with  a  face  in  which  the  knit  brow  and  rather 
hard  glance  seemed  contradicted  by  the  slack  and  feeble 
mouth.  His  person  showed  marks  of  habitual  neglect,  his 
dress  was  slovenly  ;  and  yet  there  was  something  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  old  Squire  distinguishable  from  that  of  the  ordi- 
nary farmers  in  the  parish,  who  were  perhaps  every  whit  as 
refined  as  he,  but,  having  slouched  their  way  through  life  with 
a  consciousness  of  being  in  the  vicinity  of  their  "betters," 
wanted  that  self-possession  and  authoritativeness  of  voice  and 
carriage  which  belonged  to  a  man  who  thought  of  superiors 
as  remote  existences,  with  whom  he  had  personally  little  more 
to  do  than  with  America  or  the  stars.  The  Squire  had  been 
used  to  parish  homage  all  his  life,  used  to  the  presupposition 
that  his  family,  his  tankards,  and  every  thing  that  was  his, 
were  the  oldest  and  best ;  and  as  he  never  associated  with 
any  gentry  higher  than  himself,  his  opinion  was  not  disturbed 
by  comparison. 

He  glanced  at  his  son  as  he  entered  the  room,  and  said, 
x  What,  sir !  haven't  you  had  your  breakfast  yet?"  but  there 
was  no  pleasant  morning  greeting  between  them ;  not  be- 
cause of  any  unfriendliness,  but  because  the  sweet  flower  of 
courtesy  is  not  a  growth  of  such  homes  as  the  Red  House. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Godfrey,  "  I've  had  my  breakfast,  but  I 
was  waiting  to  speak  to  you." 


SILAS   MARNER.  397 

"  Ah  !  well,"  said  the  Squire,  throwing  himself  indifferent- 
ly  into  his  chair,  and  speaking  in  a  ponderous  coughing  fash- 
ion, which  was  felt  in  Raveloe  to  be  a  sort  of  privilege  of  his 
rank,  while  he  cut  a  piece  of  beef,  and  held  it  up  before  the 
deer-hound  that  had  come  in  with  him.  "  Ring  the  bell  foi 
my  ale,  will  you  ?  You  youngsters'  business  is  your  own 
pleasure,  mostly.  There's  no  hurry  about  it  for  any  body 
but  yourselves." 

The  Squire's  life  was  quite  as  idle  as  his  sons',  but  it  was 
a  fiction  kept  up  by  himself  and  his  contemporaries  in  Rave- 
loe  that  youth  was  exclusively  the  period  of  folly,  and  that 
their  aged  wisdom  was  constantly  in  a  state  of  endurance 
mitigated  by  sarcasm.  Godfrey  waited,  before  he  spoke 
again,  until  the  ale  had  been  brought  and  the  door  closed — 
an  interval  during  which  Fleet,  the  deer-hound,  had  con- 
sumed enougb  bits  of  beef  to  make  a  poor  man's  holiday  din- 
ner. 

"  There's  been  a  cursed  piece  of  ill-luck  with  Wildfire," 
he  began  ;  "  happened  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"  What !  broke  his  knees  ?"  said  the  Squire,  after  taking  a 
draught  of  ale.  "  I  thought  you  knew  how  to  ride  better 
than  that,  sir.  I  never  threw  a  horse  down  in  my  life.  If  I 
had,  I  might  ha'  whistled  for  another,  for  my  father  wasn't 
quite  so  ready  to  unstring  as  some  other  fathers  I  know  of. 
But  they  must  turn  over  a  new  leaf — they  must.  What  with 
mortgages  and  arrears,  I'm  as  short  o'  cash  as  a  roadside  pau- 
per. And  that  fool  Kimble  says  the  newspaper's  talking 
about  peace.  Why,  the  country  wouldn't  have  a  leg  to  stand 
on.  Prices  'ud  run  down  like  a  jack,  and  I  should  never  get 
my  arrears,  not  if  I  sold  all  the  fellows  up.  And  there's  that 
damned  Fowler,  I  won't  put  up  with  him  any  longer ;  I've 
told  Winthrop  to  go  to  Cox  this  very  day.  The  lying  scoun- 
drel told  me  he'd  be  sure  to  pay  me  a  hundred  last  month. 
He  takes  advantage  because  he's  on  that  outlying  farm,  and 
thinks  I  shall  forget  him." 

The  squire  had  delivered  this  speech  in  a  coughing  and 
interrupted  manner,  but  with  no  pause  long  enough  for  God- 
frey to  make  it  a  pretext  for  taking  up  the  word  again.  He 
felt  that  his  father  meant  to  ward  off  any  request  for  money 
on  the  ground  of  the  misfortune  with  Wildfire,  and  that  the 
emphasis  he  had  thus  been  led  to  lay  on  his  shortness  of  cash 
and  his  arrears  was  likely  to  produce  an  attitude  of  mind  the 
most  unfavorable  for  his  own  disclosure.  But  he  must  go 
on,  now  he  had  begun. 

"  It's  worse  than  breaking  the  horse's  knees  —  he's  been 
staked  and  killed,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  his  father  was  silent. 


398  SILAS    MARNER. 

and  had  begun  to  cut  his  meat.  "  But  I  wasn't  thinking  of 
asking  you  to  buy  me  another  horse ;  I  was  only  thinking 
I'd  lost  the  means  of  paying  you  with  the  price  of  Wildfire, 
as  I'd  meant  to  do.  Dunsey  took  him  to  the  hunt  to  sell  him 
for  me  the  other  day,  and  after  he'd  made  a  bargain  for  a 
hundred  and  twenty  with  Bryce,  he  went  after  the  hounds, 
and  took  some  fool's  leap  or  other,  that  did  for  the  horse  at 
once.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  I  should  have  paid  you  a 
hundred  pounds  this  morning." 

The  Squire  had  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  was  star- 
ing at  his  son  in  amazement,  not  being  sufficiently  quick  of 
brain  to  form  a  probable  guess  as  to  what  could  have  caused 
so  strange  an  inversion  of  the  paternal  and  filial  relations  as 
this  proposition  of  his  son  to  pay  him  a  hundred  pounds. 

"  The  truth  is,  sir — I'm  very  sorry— I  was  quite  to  blame," 
said  Godfrey.  "  Fowler  did  pay  that  hundred  pounds.  He 
paid  it  to  me,  when  I  was  over  there  one  day  last  month. 
And  Dunsey  bothered  me  for  the  money,  and  I  let  him  have 
it,  because  I  hoped  I  should  be  able  to  pay  it  you  before 
this." 

The  Squire  was  purple  with  anger  before  his  son  had  done 
speaking,  and  found  utterance  difficult.  "  You  let  Dunsey 
have  it,  sir  ?  And  how  long  have  you  been  so  thick  with 
Dnnsey  that  you  must  collogue  with  him  to  embezzle  my 
money  ?  Are  you  turning  out  a  scamp  ?  I  tell  you  I  won't 
have  it.  I'll  turn  the  whole  pack  of  you  out  of  the  house  to- 
gether, and  marry  again.  I'd  have  you  to  remember,  sir,  my 
property's  got  no  entail  on  it ; — since  my  grandfather's  time 
the  Casses  can  do  as  they  like  with  their  land.  Remember 
that,  sir.  Let  Dunsey  have  the  money  !  Why  should  yoa 
let  Dunsey  have  the  money  ?  There's  some  lie  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it." 

"  There's  no  lie,  sir,"  said  Godfrey.  "  I  wouldn't  have 
spent  the  money  myself,  but  Dunsey  bothered  me,  and  I  was 
a  fool,  and  let  him  have  it.  But  I  meant  to  pay  it,  whether 
he  did  or  not.  That's  the  whole  story.  I  never  meant  to 
embezzle  money,  and  I'm  not  the  man  to  do  it.  You  never 
knew  me  do  a  dishonest  trick,  sir." 

"  Where's  Dunsey,  then  ?  What  do  you  stand  talking 
there  for  ?  Go  and  fetch  Dunsey,  as  I  tell  you,  and  let  him 
give  account  of  what  he  wanted  the  money  for,  and  what 
he's  done  with  it.  He  shall  repent  it.  I'll  turn  him  out.  I 
said  I  would,  and  I'll  do  it.  He  sha'n't  brave  me.  Go  and 
fetch  him." 

"  Dunsey  isn't  come  back,  sir." 

"What!    did  he  break  his  own  neck,  then  ?"  said  tna 


SILAS   MARNER.  399 

Squire,  with  some  disgust  at  the  idea  that,  in  that  case,  he 
could  not  fulfill  his  threat. 

"  No,  he  wasn't  hurt,  I  believe,  for  the  horse  was  found 
dead,  and  Dunsey  must  have  walked  off.  I  dare  say  we  shall 
see  him  again  by-and-by.  I  don't  know  where  he  is." 

"  And  what  must  you  be  letting  him  have  my  money  for  ? 
Answer  me  that,"  said  the  Squire,  attacking  Godfrey  again, 
since  Dunsey  was  not  within  reach. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  don't  know,"  said  Godfrey  hesitatingly.  That 
was  a  feeble  evasion,  but  Godfrey  was  not  fond  of  lying,  and, 
not  being  sufficiently  aware  that  no  sort  of  duplicity  can 
long  flourish  without  the  help  of  vocal  falsehoods,  he  was 
quite  unprepared  with  invented  motives. 

"You  don't  know?  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  sir.  You've 
been  up  to  some  trick,  and  you've  been  bribing  him  not  to 
tell,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  sudden  acuteness  which  startled 
Godfrey,  who  felt  his  heart  beat  violently  at  the  nearness  of 
his  father's  guess.  The  sudden  alarm  pushed  him  onto  take 
the  next  step — a  very  slight  impulse  suffices  for  that  on  a 
downward  road. 

"  Why,  sir,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  with  careless  ease, 
"it  was  a  little  affair  between  me  and  Dunsey;  it's  no  mat- 
ter to  any  body  else.  It's  hardly  worth  while  to  pry  into 
young  men's  fooleries :  it  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference 
to  you,  sir,  if  I'd  not  had  the  bad  luck  to  lose  Wildfire.  I 
should  have  paid  you  the  money." 

"  Fooleries  !  Pshaw !  it's  time  you'd  done  with  fooleries. 
And  I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  you  must  ha'  done  with  'em," 
said  the  Squire,  frowning  and  casting  an  angry  glance  at  his 
son.  "  Your  goings-on  are  not  what  I  shall  find  money  for 
any  longer.  There's  my  grandfather  had  his  stables  full  o' 
horses,  and  kept  a  good  house,  too,  and  in  worse  times,  by 
what  I  can  make  out ;  and  so  might  I,  if  I  hadn't  four  good- 
for-nothing  fellows  to  hang  on  me  like  horse-leeches.  I've 
been  too  good  a  father  to  you  all — that's  what  it  is.  But  I 
shall  pull  up,  sir." 

Godfrey  was  silent.  He  was  not  likely  to  be  very  pene- 
trating in  his  judgments,  but  he  had  always  had  a  sense 
that  his  father.'s  indulgence  had  not  been  kindness,  and  had 
had  a  vague  looking  for  some  discipline  that  would  have 
checked  his  own  errant  weakness,  and  helped  his  better  will. 
The  Squire  ate  his  bread  and  meat  hastily,  took  a  deep 
draught  of  ale,  then  turned  his  chair  from  the  table,  and  be- 
gan to  speak  again. 

"It'll  be  all  the  worse  for  you,  you  know — you'd  need 
try  and  help  me  keep  things  together." 


400  SILAS   MARNER. 

"  Well,  sir,  I've  often  offered  to  take  the  management  of 
things,  but  you  know  you've  taken  it  ill  always,  and  seemed 
to  think  I  wanted  to  push  you  out  of  your  place." 

"  I  know  nothing  o'  your  offering  or  o'  my  taking  it  ill," 
said  the  Squire,  whose  memory  consisted  in  certain  strong 
impressions  unmodified  by  detail ;  "  but  I  know,  one  while 
you  seemed  to  be  thinking  o'  marrying,  and  I  didn't  offer 
to  put  any  obstacles  in  your  way,  as  some  fathers  would. 
I'd  as  lieve  you  married  Lammeter's  daughter  as  any  body. 
I  suppose,  if  I'd  said  you  nay  you'd  ha'  kept  on  with  it ;  but, 
for  want  o'  contradiction,  you've  changed  your  mind.  You're 
a  shilly-shally  fellow  :  you  take  after  your  poor  mother.  She 
never  had  a  will  of  her  own  ;  a  woman  has  no  call  for  one, 
if  she's  got  a  proper  man  for  a  husband.  But  your  wife  had 
need  have  one,  for  you  hardly  know  your  own  mind  enough  to 
make  both  your  legs  walk  one  way.  The  lass  hasn't  said 
downright  she  won't  have  you,  has  she  ?" 

"No,"  said  Godfrey, feeling  very  hot  and  uncomfortable; 
"  but  I  don't  think  she  will."^ 

"Think!  why  haven't  you  the  courage  to  ask  her?  Do 
you  stick  to  it,  you  want  to  have  tier — that's  the  thing  ?" 

"  There's  no  other  woman  I  want  to  marry,"  said  Godfrey, 
evasively. 

"  Well,  then,  let  me  make  the  offer  for  you,  that's  all,  if 
you  haven't  the  pluck  to  do  it  yourself.  Lammeter  isn't 
likely  to  be  loath  for  his  daughter  to  marry  into  my  family, 
I  should  think.  And  as  for  the  pretty  lass,  she  wouldn't  have 
her  cousin — and  there's  nobody  else,  as  I  see,  could  ha'  stood 
in  your  way." 

"  I'd  rather  let  it  be,  please  sir,  at  present,"  said  Godfrey, 
in  alarm.  "  I  think  she's  a  little  offended  with  me  just 
now,  and  I  should  like  to  speak  for  myself.  A  man  must 
manage  these  things  for  himself." 

"  Well,  speak,  then,  and  manage  it,  and  see  if  you  cin't 
turn  over  a  new  leaf.  That's  what  a  man  must  do  when  he 
thinks  o'  marrying." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  think  of  it  at  present,  sir.  You 
wouldn't  like  to  settle  me  on  one  of  the  farms,  I  suppose,  and 
I  don't  think  she'd  come  to  live  in  this  house  with  aU  my 
brothers.  It's  a  different  sort  of  life  to  what  she's  been  used 
to." 

"Not  come  to  live  in  this  house?  Don't  tell  me.  You 
ask  her,  that's  all,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  short,  scornful 
iaugh. 

"  I'd  rather  let  the  thing  be,  at  present,  sir,"  said  Godfrey. 
"I  hope  you  won't  try  to  hurry  it  on  by  saying  any  thing." 


SILAS    MARNER. 


"  I  shall  do  what  I  choose,"  said  the  Squire,  "  and  I  shall 
let  you  know  I'm  master ;  else  you  may  turn  out,  and  find  an 
estate  to  drop  into  somewhere  else.  Go  out  and  tell  Win- 
throp  not  to  go  to  Cox's,  but  wait  for  me.  And  tell  'em  to 
get  my  horse  saddled.  And  stop:  look  out  and  get  that 
hack  o'  Dunsey's  sold,  and  hand  me  the  money,  will  you  ? 
He'll  keep  no  more  hacks  at  my  expense.  And  if  you  know 
where  he's  sneaking — I  daresay  you  do — you  may  tell  him 
to  spare  himself  the  journey  o'  coming  back  home.  Let  him 
turn  ostler,  and  keep  himself.  He  sha'n't  hang  on  me  any 
more." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is,  sir ;  and  if  I  did,  it  isn't  my 
place  to  tell  him  to  keep  away,"  said  Godfrey,  moving  to- 
wards the  door. 

"  Confound  it,  sir,  don't  stay  arguing,  but  go  and  order  my 
horse,"  said  the  Squire,  taking  up  a  pipe. 

Godfrey  left  the  room,  hardly  knowing  whether  he  were 
more  relieved  by  the  sense  that  the  interview  was  ended  with- 
out having  made  any  change  in  his  position,  or  more  uneasy 
that  he  had  entangled  himself  still  further  in  prevarication 
and  deceit.  What  had  passed  about  his  proposing  to  Nancy 
had  raised  a  new  alarm,  lest  by  some  after-dinner  words  of 
his  father's  to  Mr.  Lammeter  he  should  be  thrown  into  the 
embarrassment  of  being  obliged  absolutely  to  decline  her 
when  she  seemed  to  be  within  his  reach.  He  fled  to  his  usual 
refuge,  that  of  hoping  for  some  unforeseen  turn  of  fortune, 
some  favorable  chance  which  would  save  him  from  unpleas- 
ant consequences — perhaps  even  justify  his  insincerity  by 
manifesting  its  prudence.  And  in  this  point  of  trusting  to 
some  throw  of  fortune's  dice,  Godfrey  can  hardly  be  called 
specially  old-fashioned.  Favorable  Chance,  I  fancy,  is  the  god 
of  all  men  who  follow  their  own  devices  instead  of  obeying 
a  law  they  believe  in.  Let  even  a  polished  man  of  these  days 
get  into  a  position  he  is  ashamed  to  avow,  and  his  mind  will 
be  bent  on  all  the  possible  issues  that  may  deliver  him  from 
the  calculable  results  of  that  position.  Let  him  live  outside 
his  income,  or  shirk  the  resolute  honest  work  that  brings 
wages,  and  he  will  presently  find  himself  dreaming  of  a  pos- 
sibte  benefactor,  a  possible  simpleton  who  may  be  cajoled 
into  using  his  interest,  a  possible  state  of  mind  in  some  pos- 
sible person  not  yet  forthcoming.  Let  him  neglect  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  his  office,  and  he  will  inevitably  anchor  him- 
self on  the  chance  that  the  thing  left  undone  may  turn  out  not 
to  be  of  the  supposed  importance.  Let  him  betray  his  friend's 
confidence,  and  he  will  adore  that  same  cunning  complexi- 
ty called  Chance,  which  gives  him  the  hope  that  his  friend 


402  SILAS   MAKNEE. 

will  never  know.  Let  him  forsake  a  decent  craft  that  he  may 
pursue  the  gentilities  of  a  profession  to  which  nature  never 
called  him,  and  his  religion  will  infallibly  be  the  worship  of 
blessed  Chance,  which  he  will  believe  in  as  the  mighty  creator 
of  success.  The  evil  principle  deprecated  in  that  religion,  is 
the  orderly  sequence  by  which  the  seed  brings  forth  a  crop 
after  its  kind. 


CHAPTER  X. 

JUSTICE  MALAM  was  naturally  regarded  in  Tarley  and  Ra- 
veloe  as  a  man  of  capacious  mind,  seeing  that  he  could  draw 
much  wider  conclusions  without  evidence  than  could  be  ex- 
pected of  his  neighbors  who  were  not  on  the  Commission  of 
the  Peace.  Such  a  man  was  not  likely  to  neglect  the  clue  of 
the  tinder-box,  and  an  inquiry  was  set  on  foot  concerning  a 
peddler,  name  unknown,  with  curly  black  hair  and  a  foreign 
complexion,  carrying  a  box  of  cutlery  and  jewelry,  and  wear- 
ing large  rings  in  his  ears.  But  either  because  inquiry  was 
too  slow-footed  to  overtake  him,  or  because  the  description 
applied  to  so  many  peddlers  that  inquiry  did  not  know  how 
to  choose  among  them,  weeks  passed  away,  and  there  was  no 
other  result  concerning  the  robbery  than  a  gradual  cessation 
of  the  excitement  it  had  caused  in  Raveloe.  Dunstan  Cass's 
absence  was  hardly  a  subject  of  remark:  he  had  once  before 
had  a  quarrel  with  his  father,  and  had  gone  oft',  nobody  knew 
whither,  to  return  at  the  end  of  six  weeks,  take  up  his  old 
quarters  unforbidden,  and  swagger  as  usual.  His  own  family, 
who  equally  expected  this  issue,  with  the  sole  difference  that 
the  Squire  was  determined  this  time  to  forbid  him  the  old 
quarters,  never  mentioned  his  absence ;  and  when  his  uncle 
Kimble  or  Mr.  Osgood  noticed  it,  the  story  of  his  having 
killed  Wildfire,  and  committed  some  offense  against  his  fa- 
ther, was  enough  to  prevent  surprise.  To  connect  the  fact 
of  Dunsey's  disappearance  with  that  of  the  robbery  occurring 
on  the  same  day,  lay  quite  away  from  the  track  of  every  one's 
thought — even  Godfrey's,  who  had  better  reason  than  any 
one  else  to  know  what  his  brother  was  capable  of.  He  re- 
membered no  mention  of  the  weaver  between  them  since  the 
time,  twelve  years  ago,  when  it  was  their  boyish  sport  to  de- 
ride him  ;  and,  besides,  his  imagination  constantly  created  an 
alibi  for  Dunstan :  he  saw  him  continually  in  some  congenial 
haunt,  to  which  he  had  walked  off  on  leaving  Wildfire — saw 
him  sponging  on  chance  acquaintances,  and  meditating  a  re- 


SILAS    MARKER.  403 

turn  home  to  the  old  amusement  of  tormenting  his  elder  broth* 
er.  Even  if  any  brain  in  Kaveloe  had  put  the  said  two  facts 
together,  I  doubt  whether  a  combination  so  injurious  to  the 
prescriptive  respectability  of  a  family  with  a  mural  monu- 
ment and  venerable  tankards,  would  not  have  been  suppressed 
as  of  unsound  tendency.  But  Christmas  puddings,  brawn, 
and  abundance  of  spirituous  liquors,  throwing  the  mental 
originality  into  the  channel  of  nightmare,  are  great  preserva- 
tives against  a  dangerous  spontaneity  of  waking  thought. 

When  the  robbery  was  talked  of  at  the  Rainbow  and  else- 
where, in  good  company,  the  balance  continued  to  waver  b& 
tween  the  rational  explanation  founded  on  the  tinder-box, 
and  the  theory  of  an  impenetrable  mystery  that  mocked  in- 
vestigation. The  advocates  of  the  tinder-box-and-peddler 
view  considered  the  other  side  a  muddle-headed  and  credu- 
lous set,  who,  because  they  themselves  were  wall-eyed,  sup- 
posed every  body  else  to  have  the  same  blank  outlook ;  and 
the  adherents  of  the  inexplicable  more  than  hinted  that  their 
antagonists  were  animals  inclined  to  crow  before  they  had 
found  any  corn — mere  skimming-dishes  in  point  of  depth — 
whose  clear-sightedness  consisted  in  supposing  there  was 
nothing  behind  a  barn-door  because  they  couldn't  see  through 
it;  so  that,  though  their  controversy  did  not  serve  to  elicit 
the  fact  concerning  the  robbery,  it  elicited  some  true  opin- 
ions of  collateral  importance. 

But  while  poor  Silas's  loss  served  thus  to  brush  the  slow 
current  of  Raveloe  conversation,  Silas  himself  was  feeling 
the  withering  desolation  of  that  bereavement,  about  which 
his  neighbors  were  arguing  at  their  ease.  To  any  one  who 
had  observed  him  before  he  lost  his  gold,  it  might  have  seem- 
ed that  so  withered  and  shrunken  a  life  as  his  could  hardly 
be  susceptible  of  a  bruise,  could  hardly  endure  any  subtrac- 
tion but  such  as  would  put  an  end  to  it  altogether.  But  in 
reality  it  had  been  an  eager  life,  filled  with  immediate  pur- 
pose, which  fenced  him  in  from  the  wide,  cheerless  unknown, 
it  had  been  a  clinging  life ;  and  though  the  object  round 
which  its  fibres  had  clung  was  a  dead  disrupted  thing,  it  sat- 
isfied the  need  for  clinging.  But  now  the  fence  was  broken 
down — the  support  was  snatched  away.  Marner's  thoughts 
could  no  longer  move  in  their  old  round,  and  were  baffled 
by  a  blank  like  that  which  meets  a  plodding  ant  when  the 
earth  has  broken  away  on  its  homeward  path.  The  loom 
was  there,  and  the  weaving,  and  the  growing  pattern  in  the 
cloth  ;  but  the  bright  treasure  in  the  hole  under  his  feet  was 
gone ;  the  prospect  of  handling  and  counting  it  was  gone : 
the  evening  had  no  phantasm  of  delight  to  still  the  poor  soul's 


404  SILAS   MARNER. 

craving.  The  thought  of  the  money  he  would  get  by  his  act- 
ual work  could  bring  no  joy,  for  its  meagre  image  was  only  a 
fresh  reminder  of  his  loss ;  and  hope  was  too  heavily  crushed 
by  the  sudden  blow  for  his  imagination  to  dwell  on  the 
growth  of  a  new  hoard  from  that  small  beginning. 

He  tilled  up  the  blank  with  grief.  As  he  sat  weaving,  he 
every  now  and  then  moaned  low,  like  one  in  pain :  it  was 
the  sign  that  his  thoughts  had  come  round  again  to  the  sud- 
den chasm — to  the  empty  evening  time.  And  all  the  eve- 
ning, as  he  sat  in  his  loneliness  by  his  dull  fire,  he  leaned  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  and  clasped  his  head  with  his  hands,  and 
moaned  very  low — not  as  one  who  seeks  to  be  heard. 

And  yet  he  was  not  utterly  forsaken  in  his  trouble.  The 
repulsion  Marner  had  always  created  in  his  neighbors  was 
partly  dissipated  by  the  new  light  in  which  this  misfortune 
had  shown  him.  Instead  of  a  man  who  had  more  cunning 
than  honest  folks  could  come  by,  and,  what  was  worse,  had 
not  the  inclination  to  use  that  cunning  in  a  neighborly  way, 
it  was  now  apparent  that  Silas  had  not  cunning  enough 
to  keep  his  own.  He  was  generally  spoken  of  as  a  "  poor 
mushed  crcatur ;"  and  that  avoidance  of  his  neighbors,  which 
had  before  been  referred  to  his  ill-will,  and  to  a  probable  ad- 
diction to  worse  company,  was  now  considered  mere  craziness. 

This  change  to  a  kindlier  feeling  was  shown  in  various 
ways.  The  odor  of  Christmas  cooking  being  on  the  wind,  it 
was  the  season  when  superfluous  pork  and  black  puddings 
are  suggestive  of  charity  in  well-to-do  families ;  and  Silas's 
misfortune  had  brought  him  uppermost  in  the  memory  of 
housekeepers  like  Mrs.  Osgood.  Mr.  Crackenthorp,  too, 
while  he  admonished  Silas  that  his  money  had  probably  been 
taken  from  him  because  he  thought  too  much  of  it,  and  never 
came  to  church,  enforced  the  doctrine  by  a  present  of  pigs' 
pettitoes,  well  calculated  to  dissipate  unfounded  prejudices 
against  the  clerical  character.  Neighbors,  who  had  nothing 
but  verbal  consolation  to  give,  showed  a  disposition  not  only 
to  greet  Silas,  and  discuss  his  misfortune  at  some  length 
when  they  encountered  him  in  the  village,  but  also  to  take 
the  trouble  of  calling  at  his  cottage,  and  getting  him  to  re- 
peat all  the  details  on  the  very  spot ;  and  then  they  would 
try  to  cheer  him  by  saying,  "  Well,  Master  Marner,  you're 
no  worse  off  nor  other  poor  folks,  after  all ;  and  if  you  was 
to  be  crippled,  the  parish  'ud  give  you  a  'lowance." 

I  suppose  one  reason  why  we  are  seldom  able  to  comfort 
our  neighbors  with  our  words  is,  that  our  good-will  gets 
adulterated,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  before  it  can  pass  our  lips. 
We  can  send  black  puddings  and  pettitoes  without  giving 


SILAS   MAKNEE.  405 

them  a  flavor  or  our  own  egoism ;  but  language  is  a  stream 
that  is  almost  sure  to  smack  of  a  mingled  soil.  There  was 
a  fair  proportion  of  kindness  in  Raveloe ;  but  it  was  often  of 
a  beery  and  bungling  sort,  and  took  the  shape  least  allied  to 
the  complimentary  and  hypocritical. 

Mr.  Macey,for  example,  coming  one  evening  expressly  to  let 
Silas  know  that  recent  events  had  given  him  the  advantage  of 
standing  more  favorably  in  the  opinion  of  a  man  whose  judg< 
ment  was  not  formed  lightly,  opened  the  conversation  by 
saying,  as  soon  as  he  had  seated  himself  and  adjusted  his 
thumbs — 

"  Come,  Master  Marner,  why,  you've  no  call  to  sit  a-moan- 
ing.  You're  a  deal  better  off  to  ha'  lost  your  money,  nor  to 
ha'  kep  it  by  foul  means.  I  used  to  think,  when  you  first 
come  into  these  parts,  as  you  were  no  better  nor  you  should 
be ;  you  were  younger  a  deal  than  what  you  are  now ;  but 
you  were  allays  a  staring,  white-faced  creatur,  partly  like  a 
bald-faced  calf,  as  I  may  say.  But  there's  no  knowing;  it 
isn't  every  queer-looksed  thing  as  Old  Harry's  had  the  mak- 
ing of — I  mean,  speaking  o'  toads  and  such  ;  for  they're  often 
harmless,  and  useful  against  varmin.  And  it's  pretty  much 
the  same  wi'  you,  as  fur  as  I  can  see.  Though  as  to  the  yarbs 
and  stuff  to  cure  the  breathing,  if  you  brought  that  sort  o* 
knowledge  from  distant  parts,  you  might  ha'  been  a  bit  freer 
of  it.  And  if  the  knowledge  wasn't  well  come  by,  why,  you 
might  ha'  made  up  for  it  by  coming  to  church  reg'lar ;  for,  as 
for  the  children  as  the  Wise  Woman  charmed,  I've  been  at 
the  christening  of  'em  again  and  again,  and  they  took  the 
water  just  as  well.  And  that's  reasonable ;  for  if  Old  Har- 
ry's a  mind  to  do  a  bit  o9  kindness  for  a  holiday,  like,  who's 
got  any  thing  against  it?  That's  my  thinking;  and  I've 
been  clerk  o'  this  parish  forty  year,  and  I  know,  when  the 
parson  and  me  does  the  cussing  of  a  Ash  Wednesday,  there's 
no  cussing  o'  folks  as  have  a  mind  to  be  cured  without  a  doc- 
tor, let  Kimble  say  what  he  will.  And  so,  Master  Marner,  as 
I  was  saying— for  there's  windings  i'  things  as  they  may  car- 
ry you  to  the  fur  end  o'  the  prayer-book  afore  you  get  back 
to  'em — my  advice  is,  as  you  keep  up  your  sperrits;  for  as 
for  thinking  you're  a  deep  un,  and  ha'  got  more  inside  you 
nor  'ull  bear  daylight,  I'm  not  o'  that  opinion  at  all,  and  so  I 
tell  the  neighbors.  For,  says  I,  you  talk  o'  Master  Marner 
making  out  a  tale — why,  it's  nonsense,  that  is  :  it  'ud  take  a 
'cute  man  to  make  a  tale  like  that ;  and,  says  I,  he  looked  as 
scared  as  a  rabbit." 

During  this  discursive  address  Silas  had  continued  motion- 
less in  his  previous  attitude,  leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 


406  SILAS   MARKER. 

and  pressing  his  hands  against  his  head.  Mr.  Macey,  not 
doubting  that  he  had  been  listened  to,  paused,  in  the  expect- 
ation of  some  appreciatory  reply,  but  Marner  remained  silent. 
He  had  a  sense  that  the  old  man  meant  to  be  good-natured 
and  neighborly ;  but  the  kindness  fell  on  him  as  sunshine  falls 
on  the  wretched — he  had  no  heart  to  taste  it,  and  felt  that 
it  was  very  far  off  him. 

"  Come,  Master  Marner,  have  you  got  nothing  to  say  to 
that  ?"  said  Mr.  Macey,  at  last,  with  a  slight  accent  of  im- 
1  patience. 

"  Oh,"  said  Marner,  slowly,  shaking  his  head  between  his 
hands,  "I  thank  you — thank  you — kindly." 

"Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure :  I  thought  you  would,"  said  Mr.  Ma- 
cey; "and  my  advice  is — have  you  got  a  Sunday  suit?" 

"  No,"  said  Marner.    r.  •>•• 

"  I  doubted  it  was  so,"  said  Mr.  Macey.  "  Now,  let  me 
advise  you  to  get  a  Sunday  suit :  there's  Tookey,  he's  a  poor 
creatur,  but  he's  got  my  tailoring  business,  and  some  o'  my 
money  in  it,  and  he  shall  make  a  suit  at  a  low  price,  and  give 
you  trust,  and  then  you  can  come  to  church,  and  be  a  bit 
neighborly.  Why,  you've  never  heaved  me  say  '  Amen '  since 
you  come  into  these  parts,  and  I  recommend  you  to  lose  no 
time,  for  it'll  be  poor  work  when  Tookey  has  it  all  to  himself, 
for  I  mayn't  be  equil  to  stand  i'  the  desk  at  all,  come  another 
winter."  Here  Mr.  Macey  paused,  perhaps  expecting  some 
sign  of  emotion  in  his  hearer ;  but  not  observing  any,  he 
went  on.  "And  as  for  the  money  for  the  suit  o'  clothes, 
why,  you  get  a  matter  of  a  pound  a-week  at  your  weaving, 
Master  Marner,  and  you're  a  young  man,  eh,  for  all  you  look 
so  mushed.  Why,  you  couldn't  ha'  been  five-and-twenty 
when  you  come  into  these  parts,  eh  ?" 

Silas  started  a  little  at  the  change  to  a  questioning  tone, 
and  answered  mildly,  "  I  don't  know ;  I  can't  rightly  say — 
it's  a  long  while  since." 

After  receiving  such  an  answer  as  this,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  Mr.  Macey  observed,  later  on  in  the  evening  at  the  Rain- 
bow, that  Marner's  head  was  "  all  of  a  muddle,"  and  that  it 
was  to  be  doubted  if  he  ever  knew  when  Sunday  came  around, 
which  showed  him  a  worse  heathen  than  many  a  dog. 

Another  of  Silas's  comforters,  besides  Mr.  Macey,  came  to 
him  with  a  mind  highly  chai'ged  on  the  same  topic.  This 
was  Mrs.  Winthrop,  the  wheelwright's  wife.  The  inhabitants 
of  Raveloe  were  not  severely  regular  in  their  church-going, 
and  perhaps  there  was  hardly  a  person  in  the  parish  who 
would  not  have  held  that  to  go  to  church  every  Sunday  in 
the  calendar  would  have  shown  a  greedy  desire  to  stand  well 


SILAS   MAKNER.  407 

with  Heaven,  and  get  an  undue  advantage  over  their  neigh- 
bors— a  wish  to  be  better  than  the  "  common  run,"  that 
would  have  implied  a  reflection  on  those  who  had  had  god- 
fathers and  godmothers  as  well  as  themselves,  and  had  an 
equal  right  to  the  burying-service.  At  the  same  time,  it  was 
understood  to  be  requisite  for  all  who  were  not  household 
servants,  or  young  men,  to  take  the  sacrament  at  one  of  the 
great  festivals :  Squire  Cass  himself  took  it  on  Christmas- 
day  ;  while  those  who  were  held  to  be  "  good  livers  "  went 
to  church  with  greater,  though  still  with  moderate,  frequency. 

Mrs.  Winthrop  was  one  of  these  :  she  was  in  all  respects  a 
woman  of  scrupulous  conscience,  so  eager  for  duties,  that 
life  seemed  to  offer  them  too  scantily  unless  she  rose  at  half- 
past  four,  though  this  threw  a  scarcity  of  work  over  the 
more  advanced  hours  of  the  morning,  which  it  was  a  con- 
stant problem  with  her  to  remove.  Yet  she  had  not  the  vixen- 
ish temper  which  is  sometimes  supposed  to  be  a  necessary 
condition  of  such  habits  :  she  was  a  very  mild,  patient  wom- 
an, whose  nature  it  was  to  seek  out  all  the  sadder  and  more 
serious  elements  of  life,  and  pasture  her  mind  upon  them. 
She  was  the  person  always  first  thought  of  in  Raveloe  when 
there  was  illness  or  death  in  a  family,  when  leeches  were  to 
be  applied,  or  there  was  a  sudden  disappointment  in  a  month- 
ly nurse.  She  was  a  "comfortable  woman" — good-looking, 
fresh-complexioned,  having  her  lips  always  slightly  screwed, 
as  if  she  felt  herself  in  a  sick-room  with  the  doctor  or  the  cler- 
gyman present.  But  she  was  never  whimpering ;  no  one 
had  seen  her  shed  tears;  she  was  simply  grave  and  inclined 
to  shake  her  head  and  sigh,  almost  imperceptibly,  like  a  fu- 
nereal mourner  who  is  not  a  relation.  It  seemed  surprising 
that  Ben  Winthrop,  who  loved  his  quart-pot  and  his  joke, 
got  along  so  well  with  Dolly ;  but  she  took  her  husband's 
jokes  and  joviality  as  patiently  as  every  thing  else,  consid- 
ering that  "  men  would  be  so,"  and  viewing  the  stronger  sex 
in  the  light  of  animals  whom  it  had  pleased  Heaven  to  make 
naturally  troublesome,  like  bulls  and  turkey-cocks. 

This  good  wholesome  woman  could  hardly  fail  to  have  her 
mind  drawn  strongly  towards  Silas  Marner,  now  that  he  ap- 
peared in  the  light  of  a  sufferer ;  and  one  Sunday  afternoon 
she  took  her  little  boy  Aaron  with  her,  and  went  to  call  on 
Silas,  carrying  in  her  hand  some  small  lard-cakes,  flat  paste- 
like  articles,  much  esteemed  in  Raveloe.  Aaron,  an  apple- 
cheeked  youngster  of  seven,  with  a  clean  starched  frill,  which 
looked  like  a  plate  for  the  apples,  needed  all  his  adventurous 
curiosity  to  embolden  him  against  the  possibility  that  the 
ing-eyed  weaver  might  do  him  some  bodily  injury ;  and  his 


408  SILAS   MAKNER. 

dubiety  was  much  increased  when,  on  arriving  at  the  Stone- 
pits,  they  heard  the  mysterious  sound  of  the  loom. 

"  Ah,  it  is  as  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Winthrop,  sadly. 

They  had  to  knock  loudly  before  Silas  heard  them  ;  but 
when  he  did  come  to  the  door,  he  showed  no  impatience,  as 
he  would  once  have  done,  at  a  visit  that  had  been  unasked 
for  and  unexpected.  Formerly,  his  heart  had  been  as  a  locked 
casket  with  its  treasure  inside ;  but  now  the  casket  was 
empty,  and  the  lock  was  broken.  Left  groping  in  darkness, 
with  his  prop  utterly  gone,  Silas  had  inevitably  a  sense, 
though  a  dull  and  half-despairing  one,  that  if  any  help  oame 
to  him  it  must  come  from  without ;  and  there  was  a  slight 
stirring  of  expectation  at  the  sight  of  his  fellow-men,  a  faint 
consciousness  of  dependence  on  their  good-will.  He  opened  the 
door  wide  to  admit  Dolly,  but  without  otherwise  returning 
her  greeting  than  by  moving  the  arm-chair  a  few  inches  as  a 
sign  that  she  was  to  sit  down  in  it.  Dolly,  as  soon  as  she 
was  seated,  removed  the  white  cloth  that  covered  her  lard- 
cakes,  and  said  in  her  gravest  way — 

"  I'd  a  baking  yisterday,  Master  Marner,  and  the  lard-cakes 
turned  out  better  nor  common,  and  I'd  ha'  asked  you  to  ac- 
cept some,  if  you'd  thought  well.  I  don't  eat  such  things 
myself,  for  a  bit  o'  bread's  what  I  like  from  one  year's  end  to 
the  other ;  but  men's  stomichs  are  made  so  comical,  they 
want  a  change — they  do,  I  know,  God  help  'em." 

Dolly  sighed  gently  as  she  held  out  the  cakes  to  Silas, 
who  thanked  her  kindly,,  and  looked  very  close  at  them,  ab- 
sently, being  accustomed  to  look  so  at  every  thing  he  took 
into  his  hand — eyed  all  the  while  by  the  wondering  bright 
orbs  of  the  small  Aaron,  who  had  made  an  outwork  of  his 
mother's  chair,  and  was  peeping  round  from  behind  it. 

"  There's  letters  pricked  on  'em,"  said  Dolly.  "  I  can't 
read  'em  myself,  and  there's  nobody,  not  Mr.  Macey  himself, 
rightly  knows  what  they  mean  ;  but  they've  a  good  mean- 
ing, for  they're  the  same  as  is  on  the  pulpit-cloth  at  church. 
What  are  they,  Aaron,  my  dear  ?" 

Aaron  retreated  completely  behind  his  outwork. 

"  Oh  go,  that's  naughty,"  said  his  mother,  mildly.  "  Well, 
whativer  the  letters  are,  they've  a  good  meaning  ;  and  it's  a 
stamp  as  has  been  in  our  house,  Ben  says,  ever  since  he  Avas 
a  little  un,  and  his  mother  used  to  put  it  on  the  cakes,  and 
I've  allays  put  it  on  too ;  for  if  there's  any  good,  we've  need 
of  it  i'  this  world." 

"It'sL  H.  S.,"  said  Silas,  at  which  proof  of  learning  Aaron 
peeped  round  the  chair  again. 

"W«»ll,  to  be  sure,  you   can   read    'cm    off,"  said  Dolly 


SILAS   MARKER.  409 

"  Ben's  read  'era  to  me  many  and  many  a  time,  but  they  slip 
out  o'  my  mind  again ;  the  more's  the  pity,  for  they're  good 
letters,  else  they  wouldn't  be  in  the  church ;  and  so  I  prick 
'em  on  all  the  loaves  and  all  the  cakes,  though  sometimes 
they  won't  hold,  because  o'  the  rising — for,  as  I  said,  if  there's 
any  good  to  be  got,  we've  need  on  it  i'  this  world — that  we 
have ;  and  I  hope  they'll  bring  good  to  you,  Master  Marner, 
for  it's  wi'  that  will  I  brought  you  the  cakes ;  and  you  see 
the  letters  have  held  better  nor  common." 

Silas  was  as  unable  to  interpret  the  letters  as  Dolly,  but 
there  was  no  possibility  of  misunderstanding  the  desire  to 
give  comfort  that  made  itself  heard  in  her  quiet  tones.  He 
said,  with  more  feeling  than  before — "  Thank  you — thank  you 
kindly."  But  he  laid  down  the  cakes  and  seated  himself  ab- 
sently— drearily  unconscious  of  any  distinct  benefit  towards 
which  the  cakes  and  the  letters,  or  even  Dolly's  kindness, 
could  tend  for  him. 

"  Ah,  if  there's  good  anywhere,  we've  need  of  it,"  repeated 
Dolly,  who  did  not  lightly  forsake  a  serviceable  phrase.  She 
looked  at  Silas  pityingly  as  she  went  on.  "But  you  didn't 
hear  the  church-bells  this  morning,  Master  Marner?  I  doubt 
you  didn't  know  it  was  Sunday.  Living  so  lone  here,  you 
lose  your  count,  I  daresay ;  and  then,  when  your  loom  makes 
a  noise,  you  can't  hear  the  bells,  more  partic'lar  now  the  frost 
kills  the  sound." 

"  Yes,  I  did ;  I  heard  'em,"  said  Silas,  to  whom  Sunday 
bells  were  a  mere  accident  of  the  day,  and  not  part  of  its 
sacredness.  There  had  been  no  bells  in  Lantern  Yard. 

"  Dear  heart !"  said  Dolly,  pausing  before  she  spoke  again. 
"  But  what  a  pity  it  is  you  should  work  of  a  Sunday,  and  not 
clean  yourself — if  you  didn't  go  to  church ;  for  if  you'd  a 
roastingbit,  it  might  be  as  you  couldn't  leave  it,  being  a  lone 
man.  But  there's  the  bakehus,  if  you  could  make  up  your 
mind  to  spend  a  twopence  on  the  oven  now  and  then,  not 
every  week,  in  course — I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that  myself, — 
you  might  carry  your  bit  o'  dinner  there,  for  it's  nothing  but 
right  to  have  a  bit  o'  summat  hot  of  a  Sunday,  and  not  to 
make  it  as  you  can't  know  your  dinner  from  Saturday.  But 
now,  upo'  Christmas-day,  this  blessed  Christmas  as  is  ever 
coming,  if  you  was  to  take  your  dinner  to  the  bakehus,  and 
go  to  church,  and  see  the  holly  and  the  yew,  and  hear  the  an- 
thim,  and  then  take  the  sacramen',  you'd  be  a  deal  the  better, 
and  you'd  know  which  end  you  stood  on,  and  you  could  put 
your  trust  i'  Them  as  knows  better  nor  we  do,  seein'  you'd 
ha'  done  what  it  lies  on  us  all  to  do." 

Dolly's  exhortation,  which  was  an  unusually  long  effort  of 

18 


410  SILAS    MAK NEK. 

speech  for  her,  was  uttered  in  the  soothing  persuasive  tone 
with  which  she  would  have  tried  to  prevail  on  a  sick  man  to 
take  his  medicine,  or  a  basin  of  gruel  for  which  lie  had  no  ap- 
petite. Silas  had  never  before  been  closely  urged  on  the 
point  of  his  absence  from  church,  which  had  only  been 
thought  of  as  a  part  of  his  general  queerness ;  and  he  was 
too  direct  and  simple  to  evade  Dolly's  appeal. 

"Nay,  nay,"  he  said,  "I  know  nothing  o'  church.  I've 
never  been  to  church." 

"No !"  said  Dolly,  in  a  low  tone  of  wonderment.  Then 
bethinking  herself  of  Silas's  advent  from  an  unknown  coun- 
try, she  said,  "  Could  it  ha'  been  as  they'd  no  church  where 
you  was  born  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Silas,  meditatively,  sitting  in  his  usual  pos- 
ture of  leaning  on  his  knees,  and  supporting  his  head. 
"  There  was  churches — a  many — it  was  a  big  town.  But  I 
knew  nothing  of  'em — I  went  to  chapel." 

Dolly  was  much  puzzled  at  this  new  word,  but  she  was 
rather  afraid  of  inquiring  further,  lest  "  chapel "  might  mean 
some  haunt  of  wickedness.  After  a  little  thought,  she  said — 

"  Well,  Master  Marner,  it's  niver  too  late  to  turn  over  a 
new  leaf,  and  if  you've  never  had  no  church,  there's  no  telling 
the  good  it'll  do  you.  For  I  feel  so  set  up  and  comfortable 
as  niver  was,  when  I've  been  and  heard  the  prayers,  and  the 
singing  to  the  praise  and  glory  o'  God,  as  Mr.  Macey  gives 
out — and  Mr.  Crackenthorp  saying  good  words,  and  more 
partic'ler  on  Sacramen'  Day  ;  and  if  a  bit  o  trouble  comes,  I 
feel  as  I  can  put  up  wi'  it,  tor  I've  looked  for  help  i'  the  right 
quarter,  and  gev  myself  up  to  them  as  we  must  all  give  our- 
selves up  to  at  the  last ;  and  if  we'n  done  our  part,  it  isn't  to 
be  believed  as  Them  as  are  above  us  'ull  be  worse  nor  we  are, 
and  come  short  o'  Theirn." 

Poor  Dolly's  exposition  of  her  simple  Raveloe  theology 
fell  rather  unmeaningly  on  Silas's  ears,  for  there  was  no  word 
in  it  that  could  rouse  a  memory  of  what  he  had  known  as  re- 
ligion, and  his  comprehension  was  quite  baffled  by  the  plural 
pronoun,  which  was  no  heresy  of  Dolly's,  but  only  her  way 
of  avoiding  a  presumptuous  familiarity.  He  remained  silent, 
not  feeling  inclined  to  assent  to  the  part  of  Dolly's  speech 
which  he  fully  understood — her  recommendation  that  he 
should  go  to  church.  Indeed,  Silas  was  so  unaccustomed  to 
talk  beyond  the  brief  questions  and  answers  necessary  for 
the  transaction  of  his  simple  business,  that  words  did  not 
easily  come  to  him  without  the  urgency  of  a  distinct  purpose. 

But  now,  little  Aaron,  having  become  used  to  the  weaver's 
awful  presence,  had  advanced  to  his  mother's  side,  and  Silas, 


SILAS   MARNER.  411 

seeming  to  notice  him  for  the  first  time,  tried  to  return  Dol- 
ly's signs  of  good-will  by  offering  the  lad  a  bit  of  lard-cake. 
Aaron  shrank  back  a  little,  and  rubbed  his  head  against  his 
mother's  shoulder,  but  still  thought  the  piece  of  cake  worth 
the  risk  of  putting  his  hand  out  for  it. 

"  Oh,  for  shame,  Aaron,"  said  his  mother,  taking  him  on  her 
lap,  however ;  "  why,  you  don't  want  cake  again  yet  awhile. 
He's  wonderful  hearty,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little  sigh — "  that 
he  is,  God  knows.  He's  my  youngest,  and  we  spoil  him  sad- 
ly, for  either  me  or  the  father  must  allays  hev  him  in  our 
sight — that  we  must." 

She  stroked  Aaron's  brown  head,  and  thought  it  must  do 
Master  Marner  good  to  see  such  a  "  pictur  of  a  child."  But 
Marner,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  saw  the  neat-featured 
rosy  face  as  a  mere  dim  round,  with  two  dark  spots  in  it. 

"And  he's  got  a  voice  like  a  bird — you  wouldn't  think,'* 
Dolly  went  on  ;  "  he  can  sing  a  Christmas  carril  as  his  father's 
taught  him :  and  I  take  it  for  a  token  as  he'll  come  to  good, 
as  he  can  learn  the  good  tunes  so  quick.  Come,  Aaron,  stan' 
up  and  sing  the  carril  to  Master  Marner,  come." 

Aaron  replied  by  rubbing  his  forehead  against  his  moth- 
er's shoulder. 

"  Oh,  that's  naughty,"  said  Dolly,  gently.  "  Stan'  up, 
when  mother  tells  you,  and  let  me  hold  the  cake  till  you've 
done." 

Aaron  was  not  indisposed  to  display  his  talents,  even  to  an 
ogre,  under  protecting  circumstances ;  and  after  a  few  more 
signs  of  coyness,  consisting  chiefly  in  rubbing  the  backs  of 
his  hands  over  his  eyes,  and  then  peeping  between  them  at 
Master  Marner,  to  see  if  he  looked  anxious  for  the  "  carril," 
he  at  length  allowed  his  head  to  be  duly  adjusted,  and  stand 
ing  behind  the  table,  which  let  him  appear  above  it  only  as 
far  as  his  broad  frill,  so  that  he  looked  like  a  cherubic  head 
untroubled  with  a  body,  he  began  with  a  clear  chirp,  and  in 
a  melody  that  had  the  rhythm  of  an  industrious  hammer, — 

"God  rest  yon,  merry  gentlemen, 

Let  nothing  you  dismay, 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  on  Christmas-day." 

Dolly  listened  with  a  devout  look,  glancing  at  Marner  in 
some  confidence  that  this  strain  would  help  to  allure  him  to 
church. 

"  That's  Christmas  music,"  she  said,  when  Aaron  had  ended, 
and  had  secured  his  piece  of  cake  again.  "  There's  no  other 
music  equil  to  the  Christmas  music — '  Hark  the  erol  angils 


412  SILAS   MARNER. 

sing.'  And  you  may  judge  what  it  is  at  church,  Master  Mar- 
ner,  with  the  bassoon  and  the  voices,  as  you  can't  help  think- 
ing you've  got  to  a  better  place  a'ready — for  I  wouldn't  speak 
ill  o'  this  world,  seeing  as  Them  put  us  in  it  as  knows  best ; 
but  what  wi'  the  drink,  and  the  quarrelling,  and  the  bad  ill- 
nesses, and  the  hard  dying,  as  I've  seen  times  and  times,  one's 
thankful  to  hear  of  a  better.  The  boy  sings  pretty,  don't  lie, 
Master  Marner  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  absently, "  very  pretty." 

The  Christmas  carol,  with  its  hammer-like  rhythm,  had  fall- 
en on  his  ears  as  strange  music,  quite  unlike  a  hymn,  and 
could  have  none  of  the  effect  Dolly  contemplated.  But  he 
wanted  to  show  her  that  he  was  grateful,  and  the  only  mode 
that  occurred  to  him  was  to  offer  Aaron  a  bit  more  cake. 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  holding 
down  Aaron's  willing  hands.  "  We  must  be  going  home 
now.  And  so  I  wish  you  good-bye,  Master  Marner ;  and  if 
you  ever  feel  anyways  bad  in  your  inside,  as  you  can't  fend 
for  yourself,  I'll  come  and  clean  up  for  you,  and  get  you  a  bit 
o'  victual,  and  willing.  But  I  beg  and  pray  of  you  to  leave 
off  weaving  of  a  Sunday,  for  it's  bad  for  soul  and  body — and 
the  money  as  comes  i'  that  way  'nil  be  a  bad  bed  to  lie  down 
on  at  the  last,  if  it  doesn't  fly  away,  nobody  knows  where, 
like  the  white  frost.  And  you'll  excuse  me  being  that  free 
with  you,  Master  Marner,  for  I  wish  you  well — I  do.  Make 
your  bow,  Aaron." 

Silas  said  "  Good-bye,  and  thank  you  kindly,"  as  he  open- 
ed the  door  for  Dolly,  but  he  couldn't  help  feeling  relieved 
when  she  was  gone — relieved  that  he  might  weave  again  and 
inoan  at  his  ease.  Her  simple  view  of  life  and  its  comforts, 
by  which  she  had  tried  to  cheer  him,  was  only  like  a  report 
of  unknown  objects,  which  his  imagination  could  not  fashion. 
The  fountains  of  human  love  and  divine  faith  had  not  yet 
been  unlocked,  and  his  sou.  was  still  the  shrunken  rivulet, 
with  only  this  difference,  that  its  little  groove  of  sand  was 
blocked  up,  and  it  wandered  confusedly  against  dark  obstruc- 
tion. 

And  so,  notwithstanding  the  honest  persuasions  of  Mr.  Ma- 
cey  and  Dolly  Winthrop,  Silas  spent  his  Christmas-day  in  lone- 
liness, eating  his  meat  in  sadness  of  heart,  though  the  meat 
had  come  to  him  as  a  neighborly  present.  In  the  morning 
he  looked  out  on  the  black  frost  that  seemed  to  press  cruelly 
on  every  blade  of  grass,  while  the  half-icy  red  pool  shivered 
under  the  bitter  wind  ;  but  towards  evening  the  snow  began 
to  fall,  and  curtained  from  him  even  that  dreary  outlook,  shut- 
ting him  close  up  with  his  narrow  grief.  And  he  sat  in  his 


SILAS   MARNER.  413 

robbed  home  through  the  livelong  evening,  not  caring  to  close 
his  shutters  or  lock  his  door,  pressing  his  head  between  his 
hands  and  moaning,  till  the  cold  grasped  him  and  told  him 
that  his  fire  was  gray. 

Nobody  in  this  world  but  himself  knew  that  he  was  the 
same  Silas  Marner  who  had  once  loved  his  fellow  with  ten- 
der love,  and  trusted  in  an  unseen  goodness.  Even  to  him- 
self that  past  experience  had  become  dim. 

But  in  Kaveloe  village  the  bells  rang  merrily,  and  the 
church  was  fuller  than  all  through  the  rest  of  the  year,  with  red 
faces  among  the  abundant  dark-green  boughs — faces  prepared 
for  a  longer  service  than  usual  by  an  odorous  breakfast  of 
toast  and  ale.  Those  green  boughs,  the  hymn  and  anthem 
never  heard  but  at  Christmas — even  the  Athanasian  Creed, 
which  was  discriminated  from  the  others  only  as  being  long- 
er and  of  exceptional  virtue,  since  it  was  only  read  on  rare  oc- 
casions— brought  a  vague  exulting  sense,  for  which  the  grown 
men  could  as  little  have  found  words  as  the  children,  that  some 
thing  great  and  mysterious  had  been  done  for  them  in  heaven 
above,  and  in  earth  below,  Avhich  they  were  appropriating  by 
their  presence.  And  then  the  red  faces  made  their  way 
through  the  black  biting  frost  to  their  own  homes,  feeling 
themselves  free  for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  eat,  drink,  and  be 
merry,  and  using  that  Christian  freedom  without  diffidence. 

At  Squire  Cass's  family  party  that  day  nobody  mentioned 
Dunstan — nobody  was  sorry  for  his  absence,  or  feared  it 
would  be  too  long.  The  doctor  and  his  wife,  uncle  and  aunt 
Kimble,  were  there,  and  the  annual  Christmas  talk  was  car- 
ried through  without  any  omissions,  rising  to  the  climax  of 
Mr.  Kimble's  experience  when  he  walked  the  London  hospi- 
tals thirty  years  back,  together  with  striking  professional  an- 
ecdotes then  gathered.  Whereupon  cards  followed,  with 
Aunt  Kimble's  annual  failure  to  follow  suit,  and  Uncle  Kim- 
ble's irascibility  concerning  the  odd  trick  which  was  rarely 
explicable  to  him,  when  it  was  not  on  his  side,  without  a  gen- 
eral visitation  of  tricks  to  see  that  they  were  formed  on  sound 
principles :  the  whole  being  accompanied  by  a  strong  steam- 
ing odor  of  spirits-and-water. 

But  the  party  on  Christmas-day,  being  a  strictly  family 
party,  was  not  the  pre-eminently  brilliant  celebration  of  the 
season  at  the  Red  House.  It  was  the  great  dance  on  New 
Year's  Eve  that  made  the  glory  of  Squire  Cass's  hospitality, 
as  of  his  forefathers',  time  out  of  mind.  This  was  the  occa- 
sion when  all  the  society  of  Raveloe  and  Tarley,  whether  old 
acquaintances  separated  by  long  rutty  distances,  or  cooled  ac- 
quaintances separated  by  misunderstandings  concerning  run« 


414  SILAS    MAKNKK. 

away  calves,  or  acquaintances  founded  on  intermittent  conde- 
scension, counted  on  meeting  and  on  comporting  themselves 
with  mutual  appropriateness.  This  was  the  occasion  on  which 
fair  dames  who  came  on  pillions  sent  their  bandboxes  before 
them,  supplied  with  more  than  their  evening  costume ;  for 
the  feast  was  not  to  end  with  a  single  evening,  like  a  paltry 
town  entertainment,  where  the  whole  supply  of  eatables  is  put 
on  the  table  at  once,  and  bedding  is  scanty.  The  Red  House 
was  provisioned  as  if  for  a  siege  ;  and  as  for  the  spare  feath- 
er-beds ready  to  be  laid  on  floors,  they  were  as  plentiful  as 
might  naturally  be  expected  in  a  family  that  had  killed  its 
own  geese  for  many  generations. 

Godfrey  Cass  was  looking  forward  to  this  New  Year's  Eve 
with  a  foolish  reckless  longing,  that  made  him  half  deaf  to 
his  importunate  companion,  Anxiety. 

"Dunsey  will  be  coming  home  soon :  there  will  be  a  great 
blow-up,  and  how  will  you  bribe  his  spite  to  silence  ?"  said 
Anxiety. 

"  Oh,  he  won't  come  home  before  New  Year's  Eve,  perhaps," 
said  Godfrey  ;  "  and  I  shall  sit  by  Nancy  then,  and  dance 
with  her,  and  get  a  kind  look  from  her  in  spite  of  herself!" 

"  But  money  is  wanted  in  another  quarter,"  said  Anxiety, 
in  a  louder  voice,  "and  how  will  you  get  it  without  selling 
your  mother's  diamond  pin  ?  Ana  if  you  don't  get  it.  ...  ?" 

"  Well,  but  something  may  happen  to  make  things  easier. 
At  any  rate,  there's  one  pleasure  for  me  close  at  hand :  Nan- 
cy is  coming." 

"  Yes,  and  suppose  your  father  should  bring  matters  to  a 
pass  that  will  oblige  you  to  decline  marrying  her — and  to 
give  your  reasons  ?" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  worry  me.  I  can  see  Nan- 
cy's eyes,  just  as  they  will  look  at  me,  and  feel  her  hand  in 
mine  already." 

But  Anxiety  went  on,  though  in  noisy  Christmas  compa- 
ny ;  refusing  to  be  utterly  quieted  even  by  much  drinking. 


CHAPTER  XL 

SOME  women,  I  grant,  would  not  appear  to  advantage  seat- 
ed on  a  pillion,  and  attired  in  a  drab  Joseph  and  a  drab  bea- 
ver-bonnet, with  a  crown  resembling  a  small  stew-pan  ;  for  a 
garment  suggesting  a  coachman's  great-coat,  cut  out  under 
an  exiguity  of  cloth  that  would  only  allow  of  miniature 


SILAS  MARKER.  415 

capes,  is  not  well  adapted  to  conceal  deficiencies  of  contour, 
nor  is  drab  a  color  that  will  throw  sallow  cheeks  into  lively 
contrast.  It  was  all  the  greater  triumph  to  Miss  Nancy  Lam- 
meter's  beauty  that  she  looked  thoroughly  bewitching  in  that 
costume,  as,  seated  on  the  pillion  behind  her  tall,  erect  father, 
she  held  one  arm  round  him,  and  looked  down,  with  open- 
eyed  anxiety,  at  the  treacherous  snow-covered  pools  and  pud- 
dles, which  sent  up  formidable  splashings  of  mud  under  the 
stamp  of  Dobbin's  foot.  A  painter  would,  perhaps,  have  pre- 
ferred her  in  those  moments  when  she  was  free  from  self-con- 
sciousness ;  but  certainly  the  bloom  on  her  cheeks  was  at  its 
highest  point  of  contrast  with  the  surrounding  drab  when 
she  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  Red  House,  and  saw  Mr.  God- 
frey Cass  ready  to  lift  her  from  the  pillion.  She  wished  her 
sister  Priscilla  had  come  up  at  the  same  time  with  the  serv- 
ant, for  then  she  would  have  contrived  that  Mr.  Godfrey 
should  have  lifted  off  Priscilla  first,  and,  in  the  mean  time,  she 
would  have  persuaded  her  father  to  go  round  to  the  horse- 
block instead  of  alighting  at  the  door-steps.  It  was  very 
painful,  when  you  had  made  it  quite  clear  to  a  young  man 
that  you  were  determined  not  to  marry  him,  however  much 
he  might  wish  it,  that  he  would  still  continue  to  pay  you 
marked  attentions ;  besides,  why  didn't  he  always  show  the 
same  attentions,  if  he  meant  them  sincerely,  instead  of  being 
so  strange  as  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  was,  sometimes  behaving  as 
if  he  didn't  want  to  speak  to  her,  and  taking  no  notice  of  her 
for  weeks  and  weeks,  and  then,  all  on  a  sudden,  almost  mak- 
ing love  again  ?  Moreover,  it  was  quite  plain  he  had  no  real 
love  for  her,  else  he  would  not  let  people  have  that  to  say  of 
him  which  they  did  say.  Did"he  suppose  that  Miss  Nancy 
Lammeter  was  to  be  won  by  any  man,  squire  or  no  squire, 
who  led  a  bad  life  ?  That  was  not  what  she  had  been  used 
to  see  in  her  own  father,  who  was  the  soberest  and  best  man 
in  that  country-side,  only  a  little  hot  and  hasty  now  and  then, 
if  things  were  not  done  to  the  minute. 

All  these  thoughts  rushed  through  Miss  Nancy's  mind,  in 
their  habitual  succession,  in  the  moments  between  her  first 
sight  of  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  standing  at  the  door  and  her  own 
arrival  there.  Happily,  the  Squire  came  out  too,  and  gave  a 
loud  greeting  to  her  father,  so  that,  somehow,  under  cover  of 
this  noise,  she  seemed  to  find  concealment  for  her  confusion 
and  neglect  of  any  suitably  formal  behavior,  while  she  was 
being  lifted  from  the  pillion  by  strong  arms,  which  seemed  to 
find  her  ridiculously  small  and  light.  And  there  was  the 
best  reason  for  hastening  into  the  house  at  once,  since  the 
snow  was  beginning  to  fall  again,  threatening  an  unpleasant 


416  SILAS    MARNER. 

journey  for  such  guests  as  were  still  on  the  road.  These 
were  a  small  minority ;  for  already  the  afternoon  was  begin- 
ning to  decline,  and  there  would  not  be  too  much  time  for 
the  ladies  who  came  from  a  distance  to  attire  themselves  in 
readiness  for  the  early  tea  which  was  to  inspirit  them  for  the 
dance. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  voices  through  the  house,  as  Miss 
Nancy  entered,  mingled  with  the  scrape  of  a  fiddle  prelud- 
ing in  the  kitchen ;  but  the  Lammeters  were  guests  whose 
arrival  had  evidently  been  thought  of  so  much  that  it  had 
been  watched  for  from  the  windows,  for  Mi's.  Kimble,  who  did 
the  honors  at  the  Red  House  on  these  great  occasions,  came 
forward  to  meet  Miss  Nancy  in  the  hall,  and  conduct  her  up 
stairs.  Mrs.  Kimble  was  the  Squire's  sister,  as  well  as  the 
doctor's  wife — a  double  dignity,  with  which  her  diameter 
was  in  direct  proportion ;  so  that,  a  journey  up  stairs  being 
rather  fatiguing  to  her,  she  did  not  oppose  Miss  Nancy's  re- 
quest to  be  allowed  to  find  her  way  alone  to  the  Blue  Room, 
where  the  Miss  Lammeters'  bandboxes  had  been  deposited  on 
their  arrival  in  the  morning. 

There  was  hardly  a  bedroom  in  the  house  where  feminine 
compliments  were  not  passing  and  feminine  toilettes  going 
forward,  in  various  stages,  in  space  made  scanty  by  extra 
beds  spread  upon  the  floor ;  and  Miss  Nancy,  as  she  entered 
the  Blue  Room,  had  to  make  her  little  formal  courtesy  to  a 
group  of  six.  On  the  one  hand,  there  were  ladies  no  less  im- 
portant than  the  two  Miss  Gunns,  the  wine  merchant's  daugh- 
ters from  Lytherly,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  with  the 
tightest  skirts  and  the  shortest  waists,  and  gazed  at  by  Miss 
Ladbrook  (of  the  Old  Pastures)  with  a  shyness  not  unsus- 
tained  by  inward  criticism.  Partly,  Miss  Ladbrook  felt  that 
her  own  skirt  must  be  regarded  as  unduly  lax  by  the  Miss 
Gunns,  and  partly,  that  it  was  a  pity  the  Miss  Gunns  did  not 
show  that  judgment  which  she  herself  would  show  if  she 
were  in  their  place,  by  stopping  a  little  on  this  side  of  the 
fashion.  On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Ladbrook  was  standing  in 
skull-cap  and  front,  with  her  turban  in  her  hand,  courtesying 
and  smiling  blandly  and  saying,  "  After  you,  ma'am,"  to  an- 
other lady  in  similar  circumstances,  who  had  politely  offered 
the  precedence  at  the  looking-glass. 

But  Miss  Nancy  had  no  sooner  made  her  courtesy  than  an 
elderly  lady  came  forward,  whose  full  white  muslin  kerchief, 
and  mob-cab  round  her  curls  of  smooth  gray  hair,  were  in 
daring  contrast  with  the  puffed  yellow  satins  and  top-knot- 
ted caps  of  her  neighbors.  She  approached  Miss  Nancy  with 
much  primness,  and  said,  with  a  slow,  treble  suavity, 


SILAS   MARNER.  417 

"  Niece,  I  hope  I  see  you  well  in  health."  Miss  Nancy 
kissed  her  aunt's  cheek  dutifully,  and  answered,  with  the 
same  sort  of  amiable  primness, "  Quite  well,  I  thank  you,  aunt ; 
and  I  hope  I  see  you  the  same." 

"  Thank  you,  niece ;  I  keep  my  health  for  the  present.  And 
how  is  my  brother-in-law  ?" 

These  dutiful  questions  and  answers  were  continued  until  it 
was  ascertained  in  detail  that  the  Lammeters  were  all  as  well 
as  usual,  and  the  Osgoods  likewise,  also  that  niece  Priscilla, 
must  certainly  arrive  shortly,  and  that  travelling  on  pillions 
in  snowy  weather  was  unpleasant,  though  a  Joseph  was  a 
great  protection.  Then  Nancy  was  formally  introduced  to 
her  aunt's  visitors,  the  Miss  Gunns,  as  being  the  daughters 
of  a  mother  known  to  ttwir  mother,  though  now  for  the  first 
time  induced  to  make  a  journey  in  these  parts ;  and  these 
ladies  were  so  taken  by  surprise  at  finding  such  a  lovely  face 
and  figure  in  an  out-of-the-way  country  place,  that  they  be- 
gan to  feel  some  curiosity  about  the  dress  she  would  put  on 
when  she  took  off  her  Joseph.  Miss  Nancy,  whose  thoughts 
were  always  conducted  with  the  propriety  and  moderation 
conspicuous  in  her  manners,  remarked  to  herself  that  the  Miss 
Gunns  were  rather  hard-featured  than  otherwise,  and  that 
such  very  low  dresses  as  they  wore  might  have  been  attrib- 
uted to  vanity  if  their  shoulders  had  been  pretty,  but  that, 
being  as  they  were,  it  was  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
they  showed  their  necks  from  a  love  of  display,  but  rather 
from  some  obligation  not  inconsistent  with  sense  and  modes- 
ty. She  felt  convinced,  as  she  opened  her  box,  that  this 
must  be  her  aunt  Osgood's  opinion,  for  Miss  Nancy's  mind 
resembled  her  aunt's  to  a  degree  that  every  body  said  was 
surprising,  considering  the  kinship  was  on  Mr.  Osgood's  side ; 
and  though  you  might  not  have  supposed  it  from  the  formal- 
ity of  their  greeting,  there  was  a  devoted  attachment  and  mu- 
tual admiration  between  aunt  and  niece.  Even  Miss  Nancy's 
refusal  of  her  cousin  Gilbert  Osgood  (on  the  ground  solely 
that  he  was  her  cousin),  though  it  had  grieved  her  aunt 
greatly,  had  not  in  the  least  cooled  the  preference  which 
had  determined  her  to  leave  Nancy  several  of  her  hered- 
itary ornaments,  let  Gilbert's  future  wife  be  whom  she 
might. 

Three  of  the  ladies  quickly  retired,  but  the  Miss  Gunns 
were  quite  content  that  Mrs.  Osgood's  inclination  to  remain 
with  her  niece  gave  them  also  a  reason  for  staying  to  see  the 
rustic  beauty's  toilette.  And  it  was  really  a  pleasure — from 
the  first  opening  of  the  bandbox,  where  every  thing  smelt  of 
lavender  and  rose-leaves,  to  the  clasping  of  the  small  coral 

18* 


4 18  SILAS   MABNER. 

necklace  that  fitted  closely  round  her  little  white  neck. 
Every  thing  belonging  to  Miss  Nancy  was  of  delicate  purity 
and  nattiness  :  not  a  crease  was  where  it  had  no  business  to 
be,  not  a  bit  of  her  linen  professed  whiteness  without  fulfill- 
ing its  profession ;  the  very  pins  on  her  pincushion  were 
stuck  in  after  a  pattern  from  which  she  was  careful  to  allow 
no  aberration ;  and  as  for  her  own  person,  it  gave  the  same 
idea  of  perfect  unvarying  neatness  as  the  body  of  a  little  bird. 
It  is  true  that  her  light-brown  hair  was  cropped  behind  like 
a  boy's,  and  was  dressed  in  front  in  a  number  of  flat  rings, 
that  lay  quite  away  from  her  face ;  but  there  was  no  sort  of 
coiffure  that  could  make  Miss  Nancy's  cheek  and  neck  look 
otherwise  than  pretty  ;  and  when  at  last  she  stood  complete 
in  her  silvery  twilled  silk,  her  lace  tucker,  her  coral  necklace, 
and  coral  ear-drops,  the  Miss  Gunns  could  see  nothing  to 
criticise  except  her  hands,  which  bore  the  traces  of  butter- 
making,  cheese-crushing,  and  even  still  coarser  work.  But 
Miss  Nancy  was  not  ashamed  of  that,  for  while  she  was  dress- 
ing she  narrated  to  her  aunt  how  she  and  Priscilla  had  pack- 
ed their  boxes  yesterday,  because  this  morning  was  baking 
morning,  and  since  they  were  leaving  home,  it  was  desirable 
to  make  a  good  supply  of  meat-pics  for  the  kitchen ;  and  as 
she  concluded  this  judicious  remark,  she  turned  to  the  Miss 
Gunns  that  she  might  not  commit  the  rudeness  of  not  includ- 
ing them  in  the  conversation.  The  Miss  Gunns  smiled  stiff- 
ly, and  thought  what  a  pity  it  was  that  these  rich  country 
people,  who  could  afford  to  buy  such  good  clothes  (really 
Miss  Nancy's  lace  and  silk  were  very  costly),  should  be 
brought  up  in  utter  ignorance  and  vulgarity.  She  actually 
said  "  mate  "  for  "  meat,"  "  'appen  "  for  "  perhaps,"  and  "  oss  " 
for  "  horse,"  which,  to  young  ladies  living  in  good  Lytherly 
society,  who  habitually  said  'orse,  even  in  domestic  privacy, 
and  only  said  'appen  on  the  right  occasions,  was  necessarily 
shocking.  Miss  Nancy,  indeed,  had  never  been  to  any  school 
higher  than  Dame  Tedman's  :  her  acquaintance  with  profane 
literature  hardly  went  beyond  the  rhymes  she  had  worked  in 
her  large  sampler  under  the  lamb  and  the  shepherdess ;  and 
in  order  to  balance  an  account,  she  was  obliged  to  effect  her 
subtraction  by  removing  visible  metallic  shillings  and  six- 
pences from  a  visible  metallic  total.  There  is  hardly  a  serv- 
ant-maid in  these  days  who  is  not  better  informed  than  Miss 
Nancy  ;  yet  she  had  the  essential  attributes  of  a  lady — high 
veracity,  delicate  honor  in  her  dealings,  deference  to  others, 
and  refined  personal  habits, — and  lest  these  should  not  suffice 
to  convince  grammatical  fair  ones  that  her  feelings  can  at  all 
resemble  theirs,  I  will  add  that  she  was  slightly  proud  and 


SILAS   MARNER.  419 

exacting,  and  as  constant  in  her  affection  towards  a  baseless 
opinion  as  towards  an  erring  lover. 

The  anxiety  about  sister  Priscilla,  which  had  grown  rath- 
er active  by  the  time  the  coral  necklace  was  clasped,  was 
happily  ended  by  the  entrance  of  that  cheerful-looking  lady 
herself,  with  a  face  made  blowsy  by  cold  and  damp.  Af- 
ter the  first  questions  and  greetings,  she  turned  to  Nan- 
cy, and  surveyed  her  from  head  to  foot — then  wheeled  her 
round,  to  ascertain  that  the  back  view  was  equally  fault- 
less. 

"  What  do  you  think  o'  these  gowns,  aunt  Osgood  ?"  said 
Priscilla,  while  Nancy  helped  her  to  unrobe. 

"Very  handsome  indeed,  niece,"  said  Mrs.  Osgood,  with 
a  slight  increase  of  formality.  She  always  thought  niece 
Priscilla  too  rough. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  have  the  same  as  Nancy,  you  know,  for 
all  I'm  five  years  older,  and  it  makes  me  look  yallow;  for 
she  never  will  have  any  thing  without  I  have  mine  just  like 
it,  because  she  wants  us  to  look  like  sisters.  And  I  tell  her, 
folks  'nil  think  it's  my  weakness  makes  me  fancy  as  I  shall 
look  pretty  in  what  she  looks  pretty  in.  For  I  am  ugly — 
there's  no  denying  that :  I  feature  my  father's  family.  But, 
law  !  I  don't  mind,  do  you  ?"  Priscilla  here  turned  to  the 
Miss  Gunns,  rattling  on  in  too  much  preoccupation  with  the 
delight  of  talking,  to  notice  that  her  candor  was  not  appre- 
ciated. "The  pretty  uns  do  for  fly-catchers — they  keep  the 
men  off  us.  I've  no  opinion  o'  the  men,  Miss  Gunn — I  don't 
know  what  you  have.  And  as  for  fretting  and  stewing  about 
what  they'll  think  of  you  from  morning  till  night,  and  mak- 
ing your  life  uneasy  about  what  they're  doing  when  they're 
out  o'  your  sight — as  I  tell  Nancy,  it's  a  folly  no  woman 
need  be  guilty  of,  if  she's  got  a  good  father  and  a  good  home : 
let  her  leave  it  to  them  as  have  got  no  fortin,  and  can't  help 
themselves.  As  I  say,  Mr.  Have-your-own-way  is  the  best 
husband,  and  the  only  one  I'd  ever  promise  to  obey.  I  know 
it  isn't  pleasant,  when  you've  been  used  to  living  in  a  big 
way,  and  managing  hogsheads  and  all  that,  to  go  and  put 
your  nose  in  by  somebody's  else's  fireside,  or  to  sit  down  by 
yourself  to  a  scrag  or  a  knuckle ;  but,  thank  God  !  my  fa- 
ther's a  sober  man  and  likely  to  live ;  and  if  you've  got  a 
man  by  the  chimney-corner,  it  doesn't  matter  if  he's  childish 
— the  business  needn't  be  broke  up." 

The  delicate  process  of  getting  her  narrow  gown  over  her 
head  without  injury  to  her  smooth  curls,  obliged  Miss  Pris- 
cilla to  pause  in  this  rapid  survey  of  life,  and  Mrs.  Osgood 
seized  the  opportunity  of  rising  and  saying, 


420  SILAS   MARKER. 

"  Well,  niece,  you'll  follow  us.  The  Miss  Gunns  will  like 
to  go  down." 

"  Sister,"  said  Nancy,  when  they  were  alone,  "  you've  of- 
fended the  Miss  Gunns,  I'm  sure." 

"  What  have  I  done,  child  ?"  said  Priscilla,  in  some  alarm. 

"  Why,  you  asked  them  if  they  minded  about  being  ugly 
— you're  so  very  blunt." 

"  Law,  did  I  ?  Well,  it  popped  out :  it's  a  mercy  I  said 
no  more,  for  I'm  a  bad  un  to  live  with  folks  when  they  don't 
like  the  truth.  But  as  for  being  ugly,  look  at  me,  child,  in 
this  silver-colored  silk — I  told  you  how  it  'ud  be — I  look  as 
yallow  as  a  daffodil.  Any  body  'ud  say  you  wanted  to  make 
a  mawkin  of  me." 

"  No,  Priscy,  don't  say  so.  I  begged  and  prayed  of  you 
not  to  let  us  have  this  silk  if  you'd  like  another  better.  I 
was  willing  to  have  your  choice,  you  know  I  was,"  said  Nan- 
cy, in  anxious  self-vindication. 

"  Nonsense,  child,  you  know  you'd  set  your  heart  on  this : 
and  reason  good,  for  you're  the  color  o'  cream.  It  'ud  be  fine 
doings  for  you  to  dress  yourself  to  suit  my  skin.  What  I  find 
fault  with,  is  that  notion  o'  yours  as  I  must  dress  myself  just 
like  you.  But  you  do  as  you  like  with  me — you  always  did, 
from  when  first  you  begun  to  walk.  If  you  wanted  to  go  the 
field's  length,  the  field's  length  you'd  go ;  and  there  was  no 
whipping  you,  for  you  looked  as  prim  and  innicent  as  a  daisy 
all  the  while." 

"Priscy,"  said  Nancy,  gently,  as  she  fastened  a  coral 
necklace,  exactly  like  her  own,  round  Priscilla's  neck,  which 
was  very  far  from  being  like  her  own,  "I'm  sure  I'm  willing 
to  give  way  as  far  as  is  right,  but  who  shouldn't  dress  alike 
if  it  isn't  sisters?  Would  you  have  us  go  about  looking  as 
if  we  were  no  kin  to  one  another — us  that  have  got  no  moth- 
er and  not  another  sister  in  the  world  ?  I'd  do  what  was 
right,  if  I  dressed  in  a  gown  dyed  with  cheese-coloring ;  and 
I'd  rather  you'd  choose,  and  let  me  wear  what  pleases  you." 

"  There  you  go  again  !  You'd  come  round  to  the  same 
thing  if  one  talked  to  you  from  Saturday  night  till  Saturday 
morning.  It  will  be  fine  fun  to  see  how  you'll  master  your 
husband  and  never  raise  your  voice  above  the  singing  o'  the 
kettle  all  the  while.  I  like  to  see  the  men  mastered !" 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Priscy,"  said  Nancy,  blushing.  "  You 
know  I  don't  mean  ever  to  be  married." 

"  Oh,  you  never  mean  a  fiddlestick's  end  !"  said  Priscilla, 
as  she  arranged  her  discarded  dress,  and  closed  her  bandbox. 
"  Who  shall  I  have  to  work  for  when  father's  gone,  if  you 
are  to  go  and  take  notions  in  your  head  and  bo  an  old  maid. 


SILAS    MARNER.  421 

because  some  folks  are  no  better  than  they  should  be  ?  I 
haven't  a  bit  o'  patience  with  you — sitting  on  an  addled  egg 
forever,  as  if  there  was  never  a  fresh  un  in  the  world.  One 
old  maid's  enough  out  o'  two  sisters ;  and  I  shall  do  credit 
to  a  single  life,  for  God  A'mighty  meant  me  for  it.  Come, 
we  can  go  down  now.  I'm  as  ready  as  a  mawkin  can  be — 
there's  nothing  awanting  to  frighten  the  crows,  now  I've  got 
my  ear-droppers  in." 

As  the  two  Miss  Lammeters  walked  into  the  large  parlor 
together,  any  one  who  did  not  know  the  character  of  both, 
might  certainly  have  supposed  that  the  reason  why  the 
square-shouldered,  clumsy,  high-featured  Priscilla  wore  a 
dress  the  fac-simile  of  her  pretty  sister's,  was  either  the  mis- 
taken vanity  of  the  one,  or  the  malicious  contrivance  of  the 
other  in  order  to  set  off"  her  own  rare  beauty.  But  the  good- 
natured  self-forgetful  cheeriness  and  common-sense  of  Pris- 
cilla would  soon  have  dissipated  the  one  suspicion ;  and  the 
modest  calm  of  Nancy's  speech  and  manners  told  clearly  of 
a  mind  free  from  all  disavowed  devices. 

Places  of  honor  had  been  kept  for  the  Miss  Lammeters 
near  the  head  of  the  principal  tea-table  in  the  wainscoted 
parlor,  now  looking  fresh  and  pleasant  with  handsome 
branches  of  holly,  yew,  and  laurel,  from  the  abundant  growths 
of  the  old  garden  ;  and  Nancy  felt  an  inward  flutter,  that  no 
firmness  of  purpose  could  prevent,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Godfrey 
Cass  advancing  to  lead  her  to  a  seat  between  himself  and 
Mr.  Crackenthorp,  while  Priscilla  was  called  to  the  opposite 
side  between  her  father  and  the  Squire.  It  certainly  did 
make  some  difference  to  Nancy  that  the  lover  she  had  given 
up  was  the  young  man  of  quite  the  highest  consequence  in 
the  parish — at  home  in  a  venerable  and  unique  parlor,  which 
was  the  extremity  of  grandeur  in  her  experience,  a  parlor, 
where  she  might  one  day  have  been  mistress,  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  spoken  of  as  "  Madam  Cass,"  the 
Squire's  wife.  These  circumstances  exalted  her  inward 
drama  in  her  own  eyes,  and  deepened  the  emphasis  with 
which  she  declared  to  herself  that  not  the  most  dazzling 
rank  should  induce  her  to  marry  a  man  whose  conduct  show- 
ed him  careless  of  his  character,  but  that,  "love  once,  love 
always,"  was  the  motto  of  a  true  and  pure  woman,  and  no 
man  should  ever  have  any  right  over  her  which  would  be  a 
call  on  her  to  destroy  the  dried  flowers  that  she  treasured, 
and  always  would  treasure,  for  Godfrey  Cass's  sake.  And 
Nancy  was  capable  of  keeping  her  word  to  herself  under  very 
trying  conditions.  Nothing  but  a  becoming  blush  betrayed 
the  moving  thoughts  that  urged  themselves  upon  her  as  she 


422  SILAS   MARNER. 

accepted  the  seat  next  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp ;  for  she  was  so 
instinctively  neat  and  adroit  in  all  her  actions,  and  her  pret- 
ty lips  met  each  other  with  such  quiet  firmness,  that  it  would 
have  been  difficult  for  her  to  appear  agitated. 

It  was  not  the  rector's  practice  to  let  a  charming  blush 
pass  without  an  appropriate  compliment.  He  was  not  in  the 
least  lofty  or  aristocratic,  but  simply  a  merry-eyed,  small- 
featured,  gray-haired  man,  with  his  chin  propped  by  an  am- 
ple, many-creased  white  neckcloth,  which  seemed  to  predom- 
inate over  every  other  point  in  his  person,  and  somehow  to 
impress  its  peculiar  character  on  his  remarks ;  so  that  to  have 
considered  his  amenities  apart  from  his  cravat,  would  have 
been  a  severe,  and  perhaps  a  dangerous,  effort  of  abstraction. 

"  Ha,  Miss  Nancy,"  he  said,  turning  his  head  within  his 
cravat,  and  smiling  down  pleasantly  upon  her,  "  when  any 
body  pretends  this  has  been  a  severe  winter,  I  shall  tell  them 
I  saw  the  roses  blooming  on  New  Year's  Eve — eh,  Godfrey, 
what  do  you  say  ?" 

Godfrey  made  no  reply,  and  avoided  looking  at  Nancy 
very  markedly ;  for  though  these  complimentary  personali- 
ties were  held  to  be  in  excellent  taste  in  old-fashioned  Rave- 
loe  society,  reverent  love  lias  a  politeness  of  its  own  which  it 
teaches  to  men  otherwise  of  small  schooling.  But  the  Squire 
was  rather  impatient  at  Godfrey's  showing  himself  a  dull 
spark  in  this  way.  By  this  advanced  hour  of  the  day,  the 
Squire  was  always  in  higher  spirits  than  we  have  seen  him 
in  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  felt  it  quite  pleasant  to  fulfill 
the  hereditary  duty  of  being  noisily  jovial  and  patronizing : 
the  large  silver  snuff-box  was  in  active  service,  and  was  of- 
fered without  fail  to  all  neighbors  from  time  to  time,  how- 
ever often  they  might  have  declined  the  favor.  At  present 
the  Squire  had  only  given  an  express  welcome  to  the  heads 
of  families  as  they  appeared  ;  but  always  as  the  evening 
deepened,  his  hospitality  rayed  out  more  widely,  till  he  had 
tapped  the  youngest  guests  on  the  back,  and  shown  a  pecu- 
liar fondness  for  their  presence,  in  the  full  belief  that  they 
must  feel  their  lives  made  happy  by  their  belonging  to  a 
parish  where  there  was  such  a  hearty  man  as  Squire  Cass  to 
invite  them  and  wish  them  well.  Even  in  this  early  stage 
of  the  jovial  mood,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  wish  to  sup- 
ply his  son's  deficiencies  by  looking  and  speaking  for  him. 

"Ay,  ay,"  he  began,  offering  his  snuff-box  to  Mr.  Lam  me- 
ter, who  for  the  second  time  bowed  his  head  and  waved  his 
hand  in  stiff  rejection  of  the  offer,  "  us  old  fellows  may  wish 
ourselves  young  to-night,  when  we  see  the  mistletoe-bough 
in  the  White  Parlor.  It's  true,  most  things  are  gone  back'ard 


SILAS   MARNER.  428 

in  these  last  thirty  years — the  country's  going  down  since  the 
old  king  fell  ill.  But  when  I  look  at  Miss  Nancy  here,  I  be- 
gin to  think  the  lasses  keep  up  their  quality ; — ding  me  if  I 
remember  a  sample  to  match  her,  not  when  I  was  a  fine  young 
feilow,  and  thought  a  deal  about  my  pigtail.  No  offense  to 
you,  madam,"  he  added,  bending  to*  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who 
sat  by  him,  "  I  didn't  know  you  when  you  were  as  young  as 
Miss  Nancy  here." 

Mrs.  Crackenthorp — a  small  blinking  woman,  who  fidgeted 
incessantly  with  her  lace,  ribbons,  and  gold  chain,  turning  her 
head  about  and  making  subdued  noises,  very  much  like  a 
guinea-pig,  that  twitches  its  nose  and  soliloquizes  in  all  com- 
pany indiscriminately — now  blinked  and  fidgeted  towards  the 
Squire,  and  said,  "  Oh  no — no  offense." 

This  emphatic  compliment  of  the  Squire's  to  Nancy  was 
felt  by  others  besides  Godfrey  to  have  a  diplomatic  signifi- 
cance; and  her  father  gave  a  slight  additional  erectness  to 
his  back,  as  he  looked  across  the  table  at  her  with  complacent 
gravity.  That  grave  and  orderly  senior  Avas  not  going  to 
bate  a  jot  of  his  dignity  by  seeming  elated  at  the  notion  of  a 
match  between  his  family  and  the  Squire's  :  he  was  gratified 
by  any  honor  paid  to  his  daughter;  but  he  must  see  an  al- 
teration in  several  ways  before  his  consent  would  be  vouch- 
safed. His  spare  but  healthy  person,  and  high-featured,  firm 
face,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  never  been  flushed  by  excess,  was 
in  strong  contrast,  not  only  with  the  Squire's,  but  with  the 
appearance  of  the  Raveloe  farmers  generally — in  accordance 
with  a  favorite  saying  of  his  own,  that  "  breed  was  stronger 
than  pasture." 

"  Miss  Nancy's  wonderful  like  what  her  mother  was, 
though  ;  isn't  she,  Kimble  ?"  said  the  stout  lady  of  that  name, 
looking  round  for  her  husband. 

But  Doctor  Kimble  (country  apothecaries  in  old  days  en- 
joyed that  title  without  authority  of  diploma),  being  a  thin 
and  agile  man,  was  flitting  about  the  room  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  making  himself  agreeable  to  his  feminine  patients, 
with  medical  impartiality,  and  being  welcomed  everywhere 
as  a  doctor  by  hereditary  right — not  one  of  those  miserable 
apothecaries  who  canvass  for  practice  in  strange  neighbor- 
hoods, and  spend  all  their  income  in  starving  their  one  horse, 
but  a  man  of  substance,  able  to  keep  an  extravagant  table 
like  the  best  of  his  patients.  Time  out  of  mind  the  Raveloe 
doctor  had  been  a  Kimble  ;  Kimble  was  inherently  a  doctor's 
name  ;  and  it  was  difficult  to  contemplate  firmly  the  melan- 
choly fact  that  the  actual  Kimble  had  no  son,  so  that  his 
practice  might  one  day  be  handed  over  to  a  successor,  with 


424  SILAS    MARNER. 

the  incongruous  name  of  Taylor  or  Johnson.  But  in  that 
case  the  wiser  people  in  Raveloe  would  employ  Dr.  Blick  of 
Flitton — as  less  unnatural. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  me,  my  dear  ?"  said  the  authentic  doc- 
tor, coming  quickly  to  his  wife's  side ;  but,  as  if  foreseeing 
that  she  would  be  too  much  out  of  breath  to  repeat  her  re- 
mark, he  went  on  immediately — "  Ha,  Miss  Priscilla,  the  sight 
of  you  revives  the  taste  of  that  super-excellent  pork-pie.  I 
hope  the  batch  isn't  near  an  end." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  is,  doctor,"  said  Priscilla  ;  "  but  I'll  answer 
for  it  the  next  shall  be  as  good.  My  pork-pies  don't  turn  out 
well  by  chance." 

"  Not  as  your  doctoring  does,  eh,  Kimble  ? — because  folks 
forget  to  take  your  physic,  eh  ?"  said  the  Squire,  who  regard- 
ed physic  and  doctors  as  many  loyal  churchmen  regard  the 
church  and  the  clergy — tasting  a  joke  against  them  when  he 
was  in  health,  but  impatiently  eager  for  their  aid  when  any 
thing  was  the  matter  with  him.  He  tapped  his  box,  and  look- 
ed round  with  a  triumphant  laugh. 

"  Ah,  she  has  a  quick  wit,  my  friend  Priscilla  has,"  said  the 
doctor,  choosing  to  attribute  the  epigram  to  a  lady  rather 
than  allow  a  brother-in-law  that  advantage  over  him.  "  She 
saves  a  little  pepper  to  sprinkle  over  her  talk — that's  the  rea* 
son  why  she  never  puts  too  much  into  her  pies.  There's  my 
wife,  now,  she  never  has  an  answer  at  her  tongue's  end ;  but 
if  I  offend  her,  she's  sure  to  scarify  my  throat  with  black  pep- 
per the  next  day,  or  else  give  me  the  colic  with  watery  greens. 
That's  an  awful  tit-for-tat."  Here  the  vivacious  doctor  made 
a  pathetic  grimace. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?"  said  Mrs.  Kimble,  laughing 
above  her  double  chin  with  much  good-humor,  aside  to  Mrs. 
Crackenthorp,  who  blinked  and  nodded,  and  seemed  to  intend 
a  smile,  which,  by  the  correlation  of  forces,  went  off  in  small 
twitchings  and  noises. 

"  I  suppose  that's  the  sort  of  tit-for-tat  adopted  in  your  pro- 
fession, Kimble,  if  you've  a  grudge  against  a  patient,"  said  the 
rector. 

"  Never  do  have  a  grudge  against  our  patients,"  said  Mr. 
Kimble,  "  except  when  they  leave  us  :  and  then,  you  see,  we 
haven't  a  chance  of  prescribing  for  'em.  Ha,  Miss  Nancy," 
he  continued,  suddenly  skipping  to  Nancy's  side,  "  you  won't 
forget  your  promise  ?  You're  to  save  a  dance  for  me,  you 
know." 

"  Come,  come,  Kimble,  don't  you  be  too  for'ard,"  said  the 
Squire.  "Give  the  young  uns  fair-play.  There's  my  son 
Godfrey  '11  be  wanting  to  have  a  round  with  you  if  you 


SILAS    MARKER.  425 

run  off  with  Miss  Nancy.  He's  bespoke  her  for  the  first 
dance,  I'll  be  bound.  Eh,  sir !  what  do  you  say  ?"  he  con- 
tinued throwing  himself  backward,  and  looking  at  Godfrey. 
"Haven't  you  asked  Miss  Nancy  to  open  the  dance  with 
you  ?" 

Godfrey,  sorely  uncomfortable  under  this  significant  insist' 
ance  about  Nancy,  and  afraid  to  think  where  it  would  end  by 
the  time  his  father  had  set  his  usual  hospitable  example  of 
drinking  before  and  after  supper,  saw  no  course  open  but  to 
turn  to  Nancy  and  say,  with  as  little  awkwardness  as  possi- 
ble— 

"  No  ;  I've  not  asked  her  yet,  but  I  hope  she'll  consent — 
if  somebody  else  hasn't  been  before  me." 

"No,  I've  not  engaged  myself,"  said  Nancy,  quietly, 
though  blushingly.  (If  Mr.  Godfrey  founded  any  hopes  on 
her  consenting  to  dance  with  him,  he  would  soon  be  unde- 
ceived ;  but  there  was  no  need  for  her  to  be  uncivil.) 

"  Then  I  hope  you've  no  objections  to  dancing  with  me," 
said  Godfrey,  beginning  to  lose  the  sense  that  there  was  any 
thing  uncomfortable  in  this  arrangement. 

"  No,  no  objections,"  said  Nancy,  in  a  cold  tone. 

"Ah,  well,  you're  a  lucky  fellow,  Godfrey,"  said  uncle 
Kimble ;  "  but  you're  my  go'dson,  so  I  won't  stand  in  your 
way.  Else  I'm  not  so  very  old,  eh,  my  dear?"  he  went  on, 
skipping  to  his  wife's  side  again.  "  You  wouldn't  mind  my 
having  a  second  after  you  were  gone — not  if  I  cried  a  good 
deal  first," 

"  Come,  come,  take  a  cup  o'  tea  and  stop  your  tongue,  do," 
said  good-humored  Mrs.  Kimble,  feeling  some  pride  in  a  hus- 
band who  must  be  regarded  as  so  clever  and  amusing  by  the 
company  generally.  If  he  had  only  not  been  irritable  at 
cards ! 

While  safe,  well-tested  personalities  were  enlivening  the 
tea  in  this  way,  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  approaching  within  a 
distance  at  which  it  could  be  heard  distinctly,  made  the 
young  people  look  at  each  other  with  sympathetic  impatience 
for  the  end  of  the  meal. 

"  Why,  there's  Solomon  in  the  hall,"  said  the  Squire,  "  and 
playing  my  fav'rite  tune,  I  believe — '  The  flaxen-headed 
plough-boy' — he's  for  giving  us  a  hint  as  we  aren't  enough 
in  a  hurry  to  hear  him  play.  Bob,"  he  called  out  to  his  third 
long-legged  son,  who  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  "  open 
the  door,  and  tell  Solomon  to  come  in.  He  shall  give  us  a 
tune  here." 

Bob  obeyed,  and  Solomon  walked  in,  fiddling  as  he  walked, 
for  he  would  on  no  account  break  off  in  the  middle  of  a  tune. 


.  426  SILAS    3IARXEB, 

"Here,  Solomon,"  said  the  Squire  with  loud  patronage. 
"  Round  here,  my  man.  Ah,  I  knew  it  was  '  The  flaxen-head- 
ed plough-boy  :'  there's  no  finer  tune." 

Solomon  Macey,  a  small,  hale  old  man  with  an  abundant 
crop  of  long  white  hair  reaching  nearly  to  his  shoulders,  ad 
vanced  to  the  indicated  spot,  bowing  reverently  while  he  fid- 
dled, as  much  as  to  say  that  he  respected  the  company, 
though  he  respected  the  key-note  more.  As  soon  as  he  had 
repeated  the  tune  and  lowered  his  fiddle,  he  bowed  again  to 
the  Squire  and  the  rector,  and  said,  "I  hope  I  see  your  honor 
and  your  reverence  well,  and  wishing  you  health  and  long 
life  and  a  happy  New  Year.  And  wishing  the  same  to  you, 
Mr.  Lammeter,  sir ;  and  to  the  other  gentlemen,  and  the  mad- 
ams, and  the  young  lasses." 

As  Solomon  uttered  the  last  words,  he  bowed  in  all  direc- 
tions solicitously,  lest  he  should  be  wanting  in  due  respect. 
But  thereupon  he  immediately  began  to  prelude,  and  fell  into 
the  tune  which  he  knew  would  be  taken  as  a  special  compli- 
ment by  Mr.  Lammeter. 

"  Thank  ye,  Solomon,  thank  ye,"  said  Mr.  Lammeter  when 
the  fiddle  paused  again.  "That's  'Over  the  hills  and  far 
away,'  that  is.  My  father  used  say  to  me,  whenever  we 
heard  that  tune, '  Ah,  lad,  I  come  from  over  the  hills  and  far 
away.'  There's  a  many  tunes  I  don't  make  head  or  tail  of; 
but  that  speaks  to  me  like  the  blackbird's  whistle.  I  suppose 
it's  the  name :  there's  a  deal  in  the  name  of  a  tune." 

But  Solomon  was  already  impatient  to  prelude  again,  and 
presently  broke  with  much  spirit  into  "  Sir  Roger  de  Cover- 
ly,"  at  which  there  was  a  sound  of  chairs  pushed  back,  and 
laughing  voices. 

"  Ay,  ay,  Solomon,  we  know  what  that  means,"  said  the 
Squire,  rising.  "  It's  time  to  begin  the  dance,  eh  ?  Lead  the 
way,  then,  and  we'll  all  follow  you." 

So  Solomon,  holding  his  white  head  on  one  side,  and  play- 
iisg  vigorously,  marched  forward  at  the  head  of  the  gay  pro- 
vtf.ssiou  into  the  White  Parlor,  where  the  mistletoe-bough  was 
hung,  and  multitudinous  tallow  candles  made  rather  a  bril- 
liant effect,  gleaming  from  among  the  berried  holly-boughs, 
and  reflected  in  the  old-fashioned  oval  mirrors  fastened  in  the 
panels  of  the  white  wainscot.  A  quaint  procession  5  Old 
Solomon,  in  his  seedy  clothes  and  long  white  locks,  seemed  to 
be  luring  that  decent  company  by  the  magic  scream  of  his 
fiddle — luring  discreet  matrons  in  turban-shaped  caps,  nay, 
Mrs.  Crackenthorp  herself,  the  summit  of  whose  perpendicular 
feather  was  on  a  level  with  the  Squire's  shoulder — luring  fair 
lasses  complacently  conscious  of  very  short  waists  and  skirts 


SILAS    MARNER.  427 

blameless  of  front  folds — luring  burly  fathers  in  large  varie- 
gated waistcoats,  and  ruddy  sons,  for  the  most  part  shy  and 
sheepish,  in  short  nether  garments  and  very  long  coat-tails. 

Already  Mr.  Macey  and  a  few  other  privileged  villagers, 
who  were  allowed  to  be  spectators  on  these  great  occasions, 
were  seated  on  benches  placed  for  them  near  the  door ;  and 
great  was  the  admiration  and  satisfaction  in  that  quarter  when 
the  couples  had  formed  themselves  for  the  dance,  and  the 
Squire  led  off  with  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  joining  hands  with  the 
rector  and  Mrs.  Osgood.  That  was  as  it  should  be — that  was 
what  every  body  had  been  used  to — and  the  charter  of  Ra- 
veloe  seemed  to  be  renewed  by  the  ceremony.  It  was  not 
thought  of  as  an  unbecoming  levity  for  the  old  and  middle- 
aged  people  to  dance  a  little  before  sitting  down  to  cards, 
but  rather  as  part  of  their  social  duties.  For  what  were  these 
if  not  to  be  merry  at  appropriate  times,  interchanging  visits 
and  poultry  with  due  frequency,  paying  each  other  old-estab- 
lished compliments  in  sound  traditional  phrases,  passing  well- 
tried  personal  jokes,  urging  your  guests  to  eat  and  drink  too 
much  out  of  hospitality,  and  eating  and  drinking  too  much 
in  your  neighbor's  house  to  show  that  you  liked  your  cheer? 
And  the  parson  naturally  set  an  example  in  these  social  duties. 
For  it  would  not  have  been  possible  for  the  Raveloe  mind, 
without  a  peculiar  revelation,  to  know  that  a  clergyman 
should  be  a  pale-faced  memento  of  solemnities,  instead  of  a 
reasonably  faulty  man,  whose  exclusive  authority  to  read 
prayers  and  preach,  to  christen,  marry,  and  bury  you,  neces- 
sarily co-existed  with  the  right  to  sell  you  the  ground  to  be 
buried  in,  and  to  take  tithe  in  kind ;  on  which  last  point,  of 
course,  there  was  a  little  grumbling,  but  not  to  the  extent  of 
irreligion — not  of  deeper  significance  than  the  grumbling  at 
the  rain,  which  was  by  no  means  accompanied  with  a  spirit 
of  impious  defiance,  but  with  a  desire  that  the  prayer  for  fine 
weather  might  be  read  forthwith. 

There  was  no  reason,  then,  why  the  rector's  dancing  should 
not  be  received  as  part  of  the  fitness  of  things  quite  as  much 
as  the  Squire's,  or  why,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Macey's  offi- 
cial respect  should  restrain  him  from  subjecting  the  parson's 
performance  to  that  criticism  with  which  minds  of  extraordi- 
nary acuteness  must  necessarily  contemplate  the  doings  of 
their  fallible  fellow-men. 

"  The  Squire's  pretty  springy,  considering  his  weight,"  said 
Mr.  Macey,  "  and  he  stamps  uncommon  well.  But  Mr.  Lam- 
meter  beats  'em  all  for  shapes  :  you  see  he  holds  his  head  like 
a  sodger,  and  he  isn't  so  cushiony  as  most  o'  the  oldish  gentle- 
folks— they  run  fat  in  general ;  and  he's  got  a  fine  leg.  The 


428  SILAS   MARNER. 

parson's  nimble  enough,  but  he  hasn't  got  much  of  a  leg :  it's 
a  bit  too  thick  down'ard,  and  his  knees  might  be  a  bit  nearer 
wi'out  damage ;  but  he  might  do  worse,  lie  might  do  worse. 
Though  he  hasn't  that  grand  way  o'  waving  his  hand  as  the 
Squire  has." 

"  Talk  o'  nimbleness,  look  at  Mrs.  Osgood,"  said  Ben  Win- 
throp,  who  was  holding  his  son  Aaron  between  his  knees. 
"  She  trips  along  with  her  little  steps,  so  as  nobody  can  see 
how  she  goes — it's  like  as  if  she  had  little  wheels  to  her  feet. 
She  doesn't  look  a  day  older  nor  last  year :  she's  the  finest- 
made  woman  as  is,  let  the  next  be  where  she  will." 

"  I  don't  heed  how  the  women  are  made,"  said  Mr.  Macey, 
with  some  contempt.  "  They  wear  nayther  coat  nor  breeches 
you  can't  make  much  out  o'  their  shapes." 

"  Fayder,"  said  Aaron,  whose  feet  were  busy  beating  out 
the  tune,  "  how  does  that  big  cock's-feather  stick  in  Mrs. 
Crackenthorp's  yead  ?  Is  there  a  little  hole  for  it,  like  in  my 
shuttlecock  ?" 

"Hush,  lad,  hush;  that's  the  way  the  ladies  dress  their- 
selves,  that  is,"  said  the  father,  adding,  however,  in  an  under- 
tone to  Mr.  Macey,  "It  does  make  her  look  funny,  though — 
partly  like  a  short-necked  bottle  wi'  a  long  quill  in  it.  Iley, 
by  jingo,  there's  the  young  Squire  leading  off  now,  wi'  Miss 
Nancy  for  partners.  There's  a  lass  for  you  ! — like  a  pink-and 
white  posy — there's  nobody  'ud  think  as  any  body  could  be 
so  pritty.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she's  Madam  Cass  some  day, 
arter  all — and  nobody  more  rightfuller,  for  they'd  make  a  fine 
match.  You  can  find  nothing  against  Master  Godfrey's 
shapes,  Macey,  P\\  bet  a  penny." 

Mr.  Macey  screwed  up  his  mouth,  leaned  his  head  farther 
on  one  side,  and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  a  presto  movement 
as  his  eyes  followed  Godfrey  up  the  dance.  At  last  he  sum 
med  up  his  opinion. 

"  Pretty  well  down'ard,  but  a  bit  too  round  i'  the  shoulder- 
blades.  And  as  for  them  coats  as  he  gets  from  the  Flitton 
tailor,  they're  a  poor  cut  to  pay  double  money  for." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Macey,  you  and  me  are  two  folks,"  said  Ben, 
slightly  indignant  at  this  carping.  "  When  I've  got  a  pot  of 
good  ale,  I  like  to  swaller  it,  and  do  my  inside  good,  i'stead 
o'  smelling  and  staring  at  it  to  see  if  I  can't  find  taut  wi'  the 
brewing.  I  should  like  you  to  pick  me  out  a  finer-limbed 
young  fellow  nor  Master  Godfrey  —  one  as  'ud  knock  you 
down  easier,  or's  more  pleasanter  looksed  when  he's  piert  and 
merry." 

"  Tchuh  !"  said  Mr.  Macey,  provoked  to  increased  severity, 
"  he  isn't  come  to  his  right  color  yet ;  he's  partly  like  a  slack- 


SILAS   MARNER.  429 

baked  pie.  And  I  doubt  he's  got  a  soft  place  in  his  head,  else 
why  should  he  be  turned  round  the  finger  by  that  offal  Dun- 
sey  as  nobody's  seen  o'  late,  and  let  him  kill  that  fine  hunting 
hoss  as  was  the  talk  o'  the  country  ?  And  one  while  he  was 
allays  after  Miss  Nancy,  and  then  it  all  went  off  again,  like  a 
smell  o'  hot  porridge,  as  I  may  say.  That  wasn't  my  way 
when  /went  a-coorting." 

"  Ah,  but  mayhap,  Miss  Nancy  hung  off,  like,  and  your  lass 
didn't,"  said  Ben. 

"  I  should  say  she  didn't,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  significantly. 
"  Before  I  said  '  sniff,'  I  took  care  to  know  as  she'd  say  '  snaff,' 
and  pretty  quick  too.  I  wasn't  a-going  to  open  my  mouth, 
like  a  dog  at  a  fly,  and  snap  it  to  again,  wi'  nothing  to  swal- 
ler." 

"  "Well,  I  think  Miss  Nancy's  a-coming  round  again,"  said 
Ben, "  for  Master  Godfrey  doesn't  look  so  down-hearted  to- 
night. And  I  see  he's  for  taking  her  away  to  sit  down,  now 
they're  at  the  end  o'  the  dance :  that  looks  like  sweetheart- 
ing,  that  does." 

The  reason  why  Godfrey  and  Nancy  had  left  the  dance 
was  not  so  tender  as  Ben  imagined.  In  the  close  press  of 
couples  a  slight  accident  had  happened  to  Nancy's  dress, 
which,  while  it  was  short  enough  to  show  her  neat  ankle  in 
front,  was  long  enough  behind  to  be  caught  under  the  stately 
stamp  of  the  Squire's  foot,  so  as  to  rend  certain  stiches  at  the 
waist,  and  cause  much  sisterly  agitation  in  Priscilla's  mind, 
as  well  as  serious  concern  in  Nancy's.  One's  thoughts  may 
be  much  occupied  with  love-struggles,  but  hardly  so  as  to  be 
insensible  to  a  disorder  in  the  general  framework  of  things. 
Nancy  had  no  sooner  completed  her  duty  in  the  figure  they 
were  dancing  than  she  said  to  Godfrey,  with  a  deep  blush, 
that  she  must  go  and  sit  down  till  Priscilla  could  come  to  her ; 
for  the  sisters  had  already  exchanged  a  short  whisper  and  an 
open-eyed  glance  full  of  meaning.  No  reason  less  urgent 
than  this  could  have  prevailed  on  Nancy  to  give  Godfrey 
this  opportunity  of  sitting  apart  with  her.  As  for  Godfrey, 
he  was  feeling  so  happy  and  oblivious  under  the  long  charm 
of  the  country-dance  with  Nancy,  that  he  got  rather  bold  on 
the  strength  of  her  confusion,  and  was  capable  of  leading  her 
straight  away,  without  leave  asked,  into  the  adjoining  small 
parlor,  where  the  card-tables  were  set. 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,"  said  Nancy,  coldly,  as  soon  as  she 
perceived  where  he  was  going,  "  not  in  there.  I'll  wait  here 
till  Priscilla's  ready  to  come  to  me.  I'm  sorry  to  bring  you 
out  of  the  dance  and  make  myself  troublesome." 

"  Why,  you'll  he  more  comfortable  hei-e  by  yourself,"  said 


430  SILAS    MARKER. 

the  artful  Godfrey  :  "  I'll  leave  you  here  till  your  sister  can 
come."     He  spoke  in  an  indifferent  tone. 

That  was  an  agreeable  proposition,  and  just  what  Nancy 
desired ;  why,  then,  was  she  a  little  hurt  that  Mr.  Godfrey 
should  make  it  ?  They  entered,  and  she  seated  herself  on  a 
chair  against  one  of  the  card-tables,  as  the  stiffest  and  most 
unapproachable  position  she  could  choose. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said  immediately.  "  I  needn't  give 
you  any  more  trouble.  I'm  sorry  you've  had  such  an  unlucky 
partner." 

"  That's  very  ill-natured  of  you,"  said  Godfrey,  standing 
by  her  without  any  sign  of  intended  departure,  "  to  be  sorry 
you've  danced  with  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  I  don't  mean  to  say  what's  ill-natured  at  all," 
said  Nancy,  looking  distractingly  prim  and  pretty.  "  When 
gentlemen  have  so  many  pleasures,  one  dance  can  matter  but 
very  little." 

"You  know  that  isn't  true.  You  know  one  dance  with 
you  matters  more  to  me  than  all  the  other  pleasures  in  the 
world." 

It  was  a  long,  long  while  since  Godfrey  had  said  any  thing 
so  direct  AS  that,  and  Nancy  was  startled.  But  her  instinc- 
tive dignity  and  repugnance  to  any  show  of  emotion  made 
her  sit  perfectly  still,  and  only  throw  a  little  more  decision 
into  her  voice  as  she  said — 

"No, indeed,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that's  not  known  to  me,  and  I 
have  very  good  reasons  for  thinking  different.  But  if  it's  true, 
I  don't  wish  to  hear  it." 

"  Would  you  never  forgive  me,  then,  Nancy — never  think 
well  of  me,  let  what  would  happen — would  you  never  think 
the  present  made  amends  for  the  past  ?  Not  if  I  turned  a 
good  fellow,  and  gave  np  every  thing  you  didn't  like  ?" 

Godfrey  was  half  conscious  that  this  sudden  opportunity 
of  speaking  to  Nancy  alone  had  driven  him  beside  himself, 
but  blind  feeling  had  got  the  mastery  of  his  tongue.  Nancy 
really  felt  much  agitated  by  the  possibility  Godfrey's  words 
suggested,  but  this  very  pressure  of  emotion  that  she  was  in 
danger  of  finding  too  strong  for  her,  roused  all  her  power  of 
self-command. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  see  a  good  change  in  any  body,  Mr. 
Godfrey,"  she  answered,  with  the  slightest  discernible  differ- 
ence of  tone,  "but  it  'ud  be  better  if  no  change  was  wanted." 

"  You're  very  hard-hearted,  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey,  pettish- 
ly. "  You  might  encourage  me  to  be  a  better  fellow.  I'm 
very  miserable — but  you've  no  feeling." 

"  I  think  those  have  the  least  feeling  that  act  wrong,  to  be- 


SILAS   MABNEB.  431 

gin  with,"  said  Nancy,  sending  out  a  flash  in  spite  of  herself. 
Godfrey  was  delighted  with  that  little  flash,  and  would  have 
liked  to  go  on  and  make  her  quarrel  with  him ;  Nancy  was 
so  exasperatingly  quiet  and  firm.  But  she  was  not  indifferent 
to  him  yet. 

The  entrance  of  Priscilla,  bustling  forward  and  saying, 
"  Dear  heart  alive,  child,  let  us  look  at  this  gown,"  cut  off 
Godfrey's  hopes  of  a  quarrel. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go  now,"  he  said  to  Priscilla. 

"  It's  no  matter  to  me  whether  you  go  or  stay,"  said  that 
frank  lady,  searching  for  something  in  her  pocket,  with  a  pre- 
occupied brow. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?"  said  Godfrey,  looking  at  Nan- 
cy, who  was  now  standing  up  by  Priscilla's  order. 

"  As  you  like,"  said  Nancy,  trying  to  recover  all  her  former 
coldness,  and  looking  down  carefully  at  the  hem  of  her  gown. 

"  Then  I  like  to  stay,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  reckless  deter- 
mination to  get  as  much  of  this  joy  as  he  could  to-night,  and 
think  nothing  of  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER   XII 

WHILE  Godfrey  Cass  was  taking  draughts  of  forgetful- 
ness  from  the  sweet  presence  of  Nancy,  willingly  losing  all 
sense  of  that  hidden  bond  which  at  other  moments  galled 
and  fretted  him  so  as  to  mingle  irritation  with  the  very  sun- 
shine, Godfrey's  Avife  was  walking  with  slow,  uncertain  steps 
through  the  snow-covered  Raveloe  lanes,  carrying  her  child 
in  her  arms. 

This  journey  on  New  Year's  Eve  was  a  premeditated  act 
of  vengeance  which  she  had  kept  in  her  heart  ever  since  God- 
frey, in  a  fit  of  passion,  had  told  her  he  would  sooner  die  than 
acknowledge  her  as  his  wife.  There  would  be  a  great  party 
at  the  Red  House  on  New  Year's  Eve,  she  knew :  her  hus- 
band Avould  be  smiling  and  smiled  upon,  hiding  her  existence 
in  the  darkest  corner  of  his  heart.  But  she  would  mar  his 
pleasure :  she  would  go  in  her  dingy  rags,  with  her  faded 
face,  once  as  handsome  as  the  best,  with  her  little  child  that 
had  its  father's  hair  and  eyes,  and  disclose  herself  to  the 
Squire  as  his  eldest  son's  wife.  It  is  seldom  that  the  misera- 
ble can  help  regarding  their  misery  as  a  wrong  inflicted  by 
those  who  are  less  miserable.  Molly  knew  that  the  cause  of 
her  dingy  rags  was  not  her  husband's  neglect,  but  the  demon 


432  SILAS   MARNER. 

Opium  to  whom  she  was  enslaved,  body  and  soul,  except  in 
the  lingering  mother's  tenderness  that  refused  to  give  him 
her  hungry  child.  She  knew  this  well ;  and  yet,  in  the  mo- 
ments of  wretched  unbenumbed  consciousness,  the  sense  of 
her  want  and  degradation  transformed  itself  continually  into 
bitterness  towards  Godfrey.  He  was  well  off;  and  if  she 
had  her  rights  she  would  be  well  off  too.  The  belief  that  he 
repented  his  marriage,  and  suffered  from  it,  only  aggravated 
her  vindictiveness.  Just  and  self-reproving  thoughts  do  not 
come  to  us  too  thickly,  even  in  the  purest  air,  and  with  the 
best  lessons  of  heaven  and  earth ;  how  should  those  white 
winged  delicate  messengers  make  their  way  to  Molly's  poi- 
soned chamber,  inhabited  by  no  higher  memories  than  those 
of  a  bar-maid's  paradise  of  pink  ribbons  and  gentlemen's 
jokes  ? 

She  had  set  out  at  an  early  hour,  but  had  lingered  on  the 
road,  inclined  by  her  indolence  to  believe  that  if  she  waited 
under  a  warm  shed  the  snow  would  cease  to  fall.  She  had 
waited  longer  than  she  knew,  and  now  that  she  found  her- 
self belated  in  the  snow-hidden  ruggedness  of  the  long  lanes, 
even  the  animation  of  a  vindictive  purpose  could  not  keep  her 
spirit  from  failing.  It  was  seven  o'clock,  and  by  this  time 
she  was  not  very  far  from  Raveloe,  but  she  was  not  familiar 
enough  with  those  monotonous  lanes  to  know  how  near  she 
was  to  her  journey's  end.  She  needed  comfort,  and  she  knew 
but  one  comforter — the  familiar  demon  in  her  bosom ;  but 
she  hesitated  a  moment,  after  drawing  out  the  black  rem- 
nant, before  she  raised  it  to  her  lips.  In  that  moment  the 
mother's  love  pleaded  for  painful  consciousness  rather  than 
oblivion — pleaded  to  be  left  in  aching  weariness,  rather  than 
to  have  the  encircling  arms  benumbed  so  that  they  could 
not  feel  the  dear  burden.  In  another  moment  Molly  had 
flung  something  away,  but  it  was  not  the  black  remnant — it 
was  an  empty  viaL  And  she  walked  on  again  under  the 
breaking  cloud,  from  which  there  came  now  and  then  the 
light  of  a  quickly-veiled  star,  for  a  freezing  wind  had  sprung 
up  since  the  snowing  had  ceased.  But  she  walked  always 
more  and  more  drowsily,  and  clutched  more  and  more  au- 
tomatically the  sleeping  child  at  her  bosom. 

Slowly  the  demon  was  working  his  will,  and  cold  and 
weariness  were  his  helpers.  Soon  she  felt  nothing  but  a  su- 
preme immediate  longing  that  curtained  off  all  futurity — 
the  longing  to  lie  down  and  sleep.  She  had  arrived  at  a  spot 
where  her  footsteps  were  no  longer  checked  by  a  hedegerow, 
and  she  had  wandered  vaguely,  unable  to  distinguish  any 
objects,  notwithstanding  the  wide  whiteness  around  her,  and 


SILAS   MARKER.  433 

the  growing  starlight.  She  sank  down  against  a  straggling 
furze  bush,  an  easy  pillow  enough  ;  and  the  bed  of  snow,  too, 
was  soft.  She  did  not  feel  that  the  bed  was  cold,  and  did 
not  heed  whether  the  child  would  wake  and  cry  for  her.  But 
her  arms  had  not  yet  relaxed  their  instinctive  clutch;  and 
the  little  one  slumbered  on  as  gently  as  if  it  had  been  rocked 
in  a  lace-trimmed  cradle. 

But  the  complete  torpor  came  at  last:  the  fingers  lost 
their  tension,  the  arms  unbent ;  then  the  little  head  fell 
away  from  the  bosom,  and  the  blue  eyes  opened  wide  on  the 
cold  starlight.  At  first  there  was  a  little  peevish  cry  of 
"  mammy,"  and  an  effort  to  regain  the  pillowing  arm  and 
bosom ;  but  mammy's  ear  was  deaf,  and  the  pillow  seemed 
to  be  slipping  away  backward.  Suddenly,  as  the  child  roll- 
ed downward  on  its  mother's  knees,  all  wet  with  snow,  its 
eyes  were  caught  by  a  bright  glancing  light  on  the  white 
ground,  and,  with  the  ready  transition  of  infancy,  it  was  im- 
mediately absorbed  in  watching  the  bright  living  thing  run- 
ning towards  it,  yet  never  arriving.  That  bright  living  thing 
must  be  caught ;  and  in  an  instant  the  child  had  slipped  on 
all  fours,  and  held  out  one  little  hand  to  catch  the  gleam. 
But  the  gleam  would  not  be  caught  in  that  way,  and  now 
the  head  was  held  up  to  see  where  the  cunning  gleam  came 
from.  It  came  from  a  very  bright  place ;  and  the  little  one, 
rising  on  its  legs,  toddled  through  the  snow,  the  old  grimy 
shawl  in  which  it  was  wrapped  trailing  behind  it,  and  the 
queer  little  bonnet  dangling  at  its  back — toddled  on  to  the 
open  door  of  Silas  Marner's  cottage,  and  right  up  to  the 
warm  hearth,  where  there  was  a  bright  fire  of  logs  and  sticks, 
which  had  thoroughly  warmed  the  old  sack  (Silas's  great-coat) 
spread  out  on  the  bricks  to  dry.  The  little  one,  accustomed 
to  be  left  to  itself  for  long  hours  without  notice  from  its 
mother,  squatted  down  on  the  sack,  and  spread  its  tiny  hands 
towards  the  blaze,  in  perfect  contentment,  gurgling  and  mak- 
ing many  inarticulate  communications  to  the  cheerful  fire, 
like  a  new-hatched  gosling  beginning  to  find  itself  comforta- 
ble. But  presently  the  warmth  had  a  lulling  effect,  and  the 
little  golden  head  sank  down  on  the  old  sack,  and  the  blue 
eyes  were  veiled  by  their  delicate  half-transparent  lids. 

But  where  was  Silas  Marner  while  this  strange  visitor  had 
come  to  his  hearth  ?  He  was  in  the  cottage,  but  he  did  not 
see  the  child.  During  the  last  few  weeks,  since  he  had  lost 
his  money,  he  had  contracted  the  habit  of  opening  his  door 
and  looking  out  from  time  to  time,  as  if  he  thought  that  his 
money  might  be  somehow  coming  back  to  him,  or  that  some 
trace,  some  news  of  it,  might  be  mysteriously  on  the  road, 

19 


434  SILAS    MARNER. 

and  be  caught  by  the  listening  ear  or  the  straining  eye.  It 
was  chiefly  at  night,  when  he  was  not  occupied  in  his  loom, 
that  he  fell  into  this  repetition  of  an  act  for  which  he  could 
have  assigned  no  definite  purpose,  and  which  can  hardly  be 
understood  except  by  those  who  have  undergone  a  bewilder- 
ing separation  from  a  supremely  loved  object.  In  the  eve- 
ning twilight,  and  later  whenever  the  night  was  not  dark, 
Silas  looked  out  on  that  narrow  prospect  round  the  Stone- 
pits,  listening  and  gazing,  not  with  hope,  but  with  mere 
yearning  and  unrest. 

This  morning  he  had  been  told  by  some  of  his  neighbors 
that  it  was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  that  he  must  sit  tip  and 
hear  the  old  year  rung  out  and  the  new  rung  in,  because 
that  was  good  luck,  and  might  bring  his  money  back  again. 
This  was  only  a  friendly  Raveloe-way  of  jesting  with  the 
half-crazy  oddities  of  a  miser,  but  it  had  perhaps  helped 
to  throw  Silas  into  a  more  than  usually  excited  state.  Since 
the  on-coming  of  twilight  he  had  opened  his  door  again  and 
again,  though  only  to  shut  it  immediately  at  seeing  all  dis- 
tance veiled  by  the  falling  snow.  But  the  last  time  he  open- 
ed it  the  snow  had  ceased,  and  the  clouds  were  parting  here 
and  there.  He  stood  and  listened,  and  gazed  for  a  long 
while — there  was  really  something  on  the  road  coining  to- 
wards him  then,  but  he  caught  no  sign  of  it ;  and  the  still- 
ness and  the  wide  trackless  snow  seemed  to  narrow  his  soli- 
tude, and  touched  his  yearning  with  the  chill  of  despair. 
He  went  in  again,  and  put  his  right  hand  on  the  latch  of  the 
door  to  close  it — but  he  did  not  close  it :  he  was  arrested,  as 
he  had  been  already  since  his  loss,  by  the  invisible  wand  of 
catalepsy,  and  stood  like  a  graven  image,  with  wide  but 
sightless  eyes,  holding  open  his  door,  powerless  to  resist 
either  the  good  or  evil  that  might  enter  there. 

When  Marner's  sensibility  returned,  he  continued  the 
action  which  had  been  arrested,  and  closed  his  door,  una- 
ware of  the  chasm  in  his  consciousness,  unaware  of  any  in- 
termediate change,  except  that  the  light  had  grown  dim, 
and  that  he  was  chilled  and  faint.  He  thought  he  had  been 
too  long  standing  at  the  door  and  looking  out.  Turning  to- 
wards the  hearth,  where  the  two  logs  had  fallen  apart,  and 
sent  forth  only  a  red  uncertain  glimmer,  he  seated  himself  on 
his  fireside  chair,  and  was  stooping  to  push  his  logs  together, 
when,  to  his  blurred  vision,  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  gold 
on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  hearth.  Gold  ! — his  own  gold — 
brought  back  to  him  as  mysteriously  as  it  had  been  taken 
away !  He  felt  his  heart  begin  to  beat  violently,  and  for  a 
few  moments  he  was  unable  to  stretch  out  his  hand  and 


'  He  felt  his  heart  begin  to  beat  violently,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  was  unable 
to  stretch  out  his  hand  and  grasp  the  restored  treasure." — PAGE  434. 


436  SILAS   MARKER. 

grasp  the  restored  treasure.  The  heap  of  gold  seemed  to 
glow  and  get  larger  beneath  his  agitated  gaze.  He  leaned 
forward  at  last,  and  stretched  forth  his  hand ;  but  instead 
of  the  hard  coin  with  the  familiar  resisting  outline,  his  fingers 
encountered  soft  warm  curls.  In  utter  amazement,  Silas  fell 
on  his  knees  and  bent  his  head  low  to  examine  the  marvel : 
it  was  a  sleeping  child — a  round,  fair  thing,  with  soft  yellow 
rings  all  over  its  head.  Could  this  be  his  little  sister  come 
back  to  him  in  a  dream — his  little  sister  whom  he  had  car- 
ried about  in  his  arms  for  a  year  before  she  died,  when  he 
was  a  small  boy  without  shoes  or  stockings?  That  was  the 
first  thought  that  darted  across  Silas's  blank  wonderment. 
Was  it  a  dream?  He  rose  to  his  feet  again,  pushed  his  logs 
together,  and,  throwing  on  some  dried  leaves  and  sticks, 
raised  a  flame ;  but  the  flame  did  not  disperse  the  vision — it 
only  lit  up  more  distinctly  the  little  round  form  of  the  child, 
and  its  shabby  clothing.  It  was  very  much  like  his  little  sis- 
ter. Silas  sank  into  his  chair  powerless,  under  the  double 
presence  of  an  inexplicable  surprise  and  a  hurrying  influx  of 
memories.  How  and  when  had  the  child  come  in  without 
his  knowledge?  He  had  never  been  beyond  the  door.  But 
along  with  that  question,  and  almost  thrusting  it  away,  there 
was  a  vision  of  the  old  home  and  the  old  streets  leading  to 
Lantern  Yard — and  within  that  vision  another,  of  the 
thoughts  which  had  been  present  with  him  in.  those  far-off 
scenes.  The  thoughts  were  strange  to  him  now,  like  old 
friendships  impossible  to  revive;  and  yet  he  had  a  dreamy 
feeling  that  this  child  was  somehow  a  message  come  to  him 
from  that  far-off  life  :  it  stirred  fibres  that  had  never  been 
moved  in  Raveloe — old  quiverings  of  tenderness — old  impres- 
sions of  awe  at  the  presentiment  of  some  Power  presiding 
over  his  life ;  for  his  imagination  had  not  yet  extricated  it- 
self from  the  sense  of  mystery  in  the  child's  sudden  presence, 
and  had  formed  no  conjectures  of  ordinary  natural  means  by 
which  the  event  could  have  been  brought  about. 

But  there  was  a  cry  on  the  hearth  :  the  child  had  awaked, 
and  Marner  stooped  to  lift  it  on  his  knee.  It  clung  round 
his  neck,  and  burst  louder  and  louder  into  that  mingling  of 
inarticulate  cries  with  "  mammy  "  by  which  little  children  ex- 
press the  bewilderment  of  waking.  Silas  pressed  it  to  him, 
and  almost  unconsciously  uttered  sounds  of  hushing  tender- 
ness, while  he  bethought  himself  that  some  of  his  porridge, 
which  had  got  cool  by  the  dying  fire,  would  do  to  feed  tha 
child  with  if  it  were  only  warmed  up  a  little. 

He  had  plenty  to  do  through  the  next  hour.  The  por- 
ridge, sweetened  with  some  dry  brown  sugar  from  an  old 


SILAS    MARNER.  437 

store  Avhich  he  had  refrained  from  using  for  himself,  stopped 
the  cries  of  the  little  one,  and  made  her  lift  her  blue  eyes 
with  a  wide  quiet  gaze  at  Silas,  as  he  put  the  spoon  into  her 
mouth.  Presently  she  slipped  from  his  knee  and  began  to 
toddle  about,  but  with  a  pretty  stagger  that  made  Silas  jump 
up  and  follow  her  lest  she  should  fall  against  any  thing  that 
would  hurt  her.  But  she  only  fell  in  a  sitting  posture  on  the 
ground,  and  began  to  pull  at  her  boots,  looking  up  at  him 
with  a  crying  face  as  if  the  boots  hurt  her.  He  took  her  on 
his  knee  again,  but  it  was  some  time  before  it  occurred  to  Si- 
las's dull  bachelor  mind  that  the  wet  boots  were  the  griev- 
ance, pressing  on  her  warm  ankles.  He  got  them  off  with 
difficulty,  and  baby  was  at  once  happily  occupied  with  the 
primary  mystery  of  her  own  toes,  inviting  Silas,  with  much 
chuckling,  to  consider  the  mystery  too.  But  the  wet  boots 
had  at  last  suggested  to  Silas  that  the  child  had  been  walk- 
ing on  the  snow,  and  this  roused  him  from  his  entire  obliviov 
of  any  ordinary  means  by  which  it  could  have  entered  c» 
been  brought  into  his  house.  Under  the  prompting  of  this 
new  idea,  and  without  waiting  to  form  conjectures,  he  raised 
the  child  in  his  arms,  and  went  to  the  door.  As  soon  as  he 
had  opened  it,  there  was  the  cry  of  "  mammy  "  again,  which 
Silas  had  not  heard  since  the  child's  first  hungry  waking. 
Bending  forward,  he  could  just  discern  the  marks  made  by 
the  little  feet  on  the  virgin  snow,  and  he  followed  their  track 
to  the  furze  bushes.  "Mammy  !"  the  little  one  cried  again 
and  again,  stretching  itself  forward  so  as  almost  to  escape 
from  Silas's  arms,  before  he  himself  was  aware  that  there  was 
something  more  than  the  bush  before  him — that  there  was  a 
human  body,  with  the  head  sunk  low  in  the  furze,  and  half- 
covered  with  the  shaken  snow. 


CHAPTER  XHL 

IT  was  after  the  early  supper-time  at  the  Red  House,  and 
the  entertainment  was  in  that  stage  when  bashfulness  itself 
had  passed  into  easy  jollity,  when  gentlemen,  conscious  of 
unusual  accomplishments,  eould  at  length  be  prevailed  on  to 
dance  a  hornpipe,  and  when  the  Squire  preferred  talking  loud- 
ly, scattering  snuff,  and  patting  his  visitors'  backs,  to  sitting 
longer  at  the  whist-table — a  choice  exasperating  to  uncle 
Kimble,  who,  being  always  volatile  in  sober  business  hours, 
became  intense  and  bitter  over  cards  and  brandy,  shuffled 


438  SILAS    MARKER. 

before  his  adversary's  deal  with  a  glare  of  suspicion,  and  turn« 
ed  up  a  mean  trump-card  with  an  air  of  inexpressible  disgust, 
as  if  in  a  world  where  such  things  could  happen  one  might 
as  well  enter  on  a  course  of  reckless  profligacy.  When  the 
evening  had  advanced  to  this  pitch  of  freedom  and  enjoy- 
ment, it  was  usual  for  the  servants,  the  heavy  duties  of  sup- 
per being  well  over,  to  get  their  share  of  amusement  by  com- 
ing to  look  on  at  the  dancing ;  so  that  the  back  regions  of  the 
house  were  left  in  solitude. 

There  were  two  doors  by  which  the  White  Parlor  was  en- 
tered from  the  hall,  and  they  were  both  standing  open  for  the 
sake  of  air ;  but  the  lower  one  was  crowded  with  the  servants 
and  villagers,  and  only  the  upper  doorway  was  left  free.  Bob 
Cass  was  figuring  in  a  hornpipe,  and  his  father,  very  proud  of 
this  lithe  son,  whom  he  repeatedly  declared  to  be  just  like 
himself  in  his  young  days,  in  a  tone  that  implied  this  to  be 
the  very  highest  stamp  of  juvenile  merit,  was  the  centre  of  a 
group  who  had  placed  themselves  opposite  the  performer,  not 
far  from  the  upper  door.  Godfrey  was  standing  a  little  way 
off,  not  to  admire  his  brother's  dancing,  but  to  keep  sight  of 
Nancy,  who  was  seated  in  the  group,  near  her  father.  He 
stood  aloof,  because  he  wished  to  avoid  suggesting  himself  as  a 
subject  for  the  Squire's  fatherly  jokes  in  connection  with  mat- 
rimony and  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter's  beauty,  which  were  like- 
ly to  become  more  and  more  explicit.  But  he  had  the  pros- 
pect of  dancing  with  her  again  when  the  hornpipe  was  con- 
cluded, and  in  the  mean  while  it  was  very  pleasant  to  get  long 
glances  at  her  quite  unobserved. 

But  when  Godfrey  was  lifting  his  eyes  from  one  of  those 
long  glances,  they  encountered  an  object  as  startling  to  him 
at  that  moment  as  if  it  had  been  an  apparition  from  the  dead. 
It  was  an  apparition  from  that  hidden  life  which  lies,  like  a 
dark  by-street,  behind  the  goodly  ornamented  fa9ade  that 
meets  the  sunlight  and  the  gaze  of  respectable  admirers.  It 
was  his  own  child  carried  in  Silas  Marner's  arms.  That  was 
his  instantaneous  impression,  unaccompanied  by  doubt,  though 
he  had  not  seen  the  child  for  months  past ;  and  when  the 
hope  was  rising  that  he  might  possibly  be  mistaken,  Mr.  Crack- 
enthorp  and  Mr.  Lammeter  had  already  advanced  to  Silas,  in 
astonishment  at  this  strange  advent.  Godfrey  joined  them 
immediately,  unable  to  rest  without  hearing  every  word — 
trying  to  control  himself,  but  conscious  that  if  any  one  no- 
ticed him,  they  must  see  that  he  was  white-lipped  and  trem- 

!_!• 

bang. 

But  now  all  eyes  at  that  end  of  the  room  were  bent  on  Si- 
las Marner ;  the  Squire  himself  had  risen,  and  asked  angrily, 


SILAS   MARNEB.  439 

"  How's  this  ? — wtiat's  this  ? — what  do  you  do  coining  in  here 
in  this  way  ?" 

"  I'm  come  for  the  doctor — I  want  the  doctor,"  Silas  had 
said,  in  the  first  moment,  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Marner  ?"  said  the  rector.  "  The 
doctor's  here ;  but  say  quietly  what  you  want  him  for." 

"  It's  a  woman,"  said  Silas,  speaking  low,  and  half-breath- 
lessly,  just  as  Godfrey  came  up.  "She's  dead, I  think — dead 
in  the  snow  at  the  Stone-pits — not  far  from  my  door." 

Godfrey  felt  a  great  throb:  there  was  one  terror  in  his 
mind  at  that  moment :  it  was,  that  the  woman  might  not  be 
dead.  That  was  an  evil  terror — an  ugly  inmate  to  have  found 
a  nestling-place  in  Godfrey's  kindly  disposition ;  but  no  dis- 
position is  a  security  from  evil  wishes  to  a  man  whose  happi- 
ness hangs  on  duplicity. 

"  Hush,  hush  !"  said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  "  Go  out  into  the 
hall  there.  I'll  fetch  the  doctor  to  you.  Found  a  woman  in 
the  snow— --and  thinks  she's  dead,"  he  added,  speaking  low,  to 
the  Squire.  "Better  say  as  little  about  it  as  possible  :  it  will 
shock  the  ladies.  Just  tell  them  a  poor  woman  is  ill  from 
cold  and  hunger.  I'll  go  and  fetch  Kimble." 

By  this  time,  however,  the  ladies  had  pressed  forward, 
curious  to  know  what  could  have  brought  the  solitary  linen- 
weaver  there  under  such  strange  circumstances,  and  interest- 
ed in  the  pretty  child,  who,  half  alarmed  and  half  attracted 
by  the  brightness  and  the  numerous  company,  now  frowned 
and  hid  her  face,  now  lifted  up  her  head  again  and  looked 
round  placably,  until  a  touch  or  a  coaxing  word  brought  back 
the  frown,  and  made  her  bury  her  face  with  new  determina- 
tion. 

"  What  child  is  it  ?"  said  several  ladies  at  once,  and,  among 
the  rest,  Nancy  Lammeter,  addressing  Godfrey. 

"  I  don't  know — some  poor  woman's  who  has  been  found 
in  the  snow,  I  believe,"  was  the  answer  Godfrey  wrung  from 
himself  with  a  terrible  effort.  ("  After  all,  am  I  certain  ?" 
he  hastened  to  add,  silently,  in  anticipation  of  his  own  con- 
science.) 

"  Why,  you'd  better  leave  the  child  here,  then,  Master  Mar- 
ner," said  good-natured  Mrs.  Kimble,  hesitating,  however,  to 
take  those  dingy  clothes  into  contact  with  her  own  ornament- 
Mice.  "  I'll  tell  one  o'  the  <nrls  to  fetch  it." 


ed  satin  boddice 
las 


"  No — no — I  can't  part  with  it,  I  can't  let  it  go,"  said  Si- 
, abruptly.     "It's  come  to  me — I've  a  right  to  keep  it." 
The  proposition  to  take  the  child  from  him  had  come  to 
Silas   quite  unexpectedly,  and  his  speech,  uttered  under  a 
strong  sudden  impulse,  was  almost  like  a  revelation  to  him- 


440  SILAS   MARXER. 

self:  a  minute  before,  he  had  no  distinct  intention  about  the 
child. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?"  said  Mrs.  Kimble,  in  mild 
surprise  to  her  neighbor. 

"  Now,  ladies,  I  must  trouble  you  to  stand  aside,"  said  Mr. 
Kimble,  coming  from  the  card-room  in  some  bitterness  at  the 
interruption,  but  drilled  by  the  long  habit  of  his  profession 
into  obedience  to  unpleasant  calls,  even  when  he  was  hardly 
sober. 

"  It's  a  nasty  business  turning  out  now,  eh,  Kimble  ?"  said 
the  Squire.  "  He  might  ha'  gone  for  your  young  fellow — the 
'prentice  there — what's  his  name  ?" 

"Might?  ay — what's  the  use  of  talking  about  might?" 
growled  uncle  Kimble,  hastening  out  with  Marner,  and  follow- 
ed by  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Godfrey.  "  Get  me  a  pair  of 
thick  boots,  Godfrey,  will  you  ?  And  stay,  let  somebody  run 
to  Winthrop's  and  fetch  Dolly — she's  the  best  woman  to  get. 
Ben  was  here  himself  before  supper :  is  he  gone  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  met  him,"  said  Marner ;  "  but  I  couldn't  stop  to 
tell  him  any  thing,  only  I  said  I  was  going  for  the  doctor, 
and  he  said  the  doctor  was  at  the  Squire's.  And  I  made 
haste  and  ran,  and  there  was  nobody  to  be  seen  at  the  back 
o'  the  house,  and  so  I  went  in  to  where  the  company  was." 

The  child,  no  longer  distracted  by  the  bright  light  and  the 
smiling  women's  faces,  began  to  cry  and  call  for  "  mammy," 
though  always  clinging  to  Marner,  who  had  apparently  won 
her  thorough  confidence.  Godfrey  had  come  back  with  the 
boots,  and  felt  the  cry  as  if  some  fibre  were  drawn  tight  with 
in  him. 

"  I'll  go,"  he  said,  hastily,  eager  for  some  movement ;  "  I'll 
go  and  fetch  the  woman — Mrs.  Winthrop." 

"  Oh,  pooh — send  somebody  else,"  said  uncle  Kimble,  hur- 
rying away  with  Marner. 

"You'll  let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of  any  use,  Kimble,"  said 
Mr.  Crackenthorp.  But  the  doctor  was  out  of  hearing. 

Godfrey,  too,  had  disappeared :  he  was  gone  to  snatch  his 
hat  and  coat,  having  just  reflection  enough  to  remember  that 
he  must  not  look  like  a  madman ;  but  he  rushed  out  of  the 
house  into  the  snow  without  heeding  his  thin  shoes. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  on  his  rapid  way  to  the  Stone- 
pits  by  the  side  of  Dolly,  who,  though  feeling  that  she  was 
entirely  in  her  place  in  encountering  cold  and  snow  on  an  er- 
rand of  mercy,  was  much  concerned  at  a  young  gentleman's 
getting  his  feet  wet  under  a  like  impulse. 

"  You'd  a  deal  better  go  back,  sir,"  said  Dolly,  with  re- 
spectful compassion.  "You've  no  call  to  catch  cold;  and 


SILAS   MAKNEB.  441 

I'd  ask  you  if  you'd  be  so  good  as  tell  my  husband  to  come, 
on  your  way  back — he's  at  the  Rainbow,  I  doubt — if  you 
found  him  any  way  sober  enough  to  be  o'  use.  Or  else, 
there's  Mrs.  Snell  'ud  happen  send  the  boy  up  to  fetch  and 
carry,  for  there  may  be  things  wanted  from  the  doctor's." 

"  No,  I'll  stay,  now  I'm  once  out — I'll  stay  outside  here," 
said  Godfrey,  when  they  came  opposite  Marner's  cottage. 
"You  can  come  and  tell  me  if  I  can  do  any  thing." 

"  Well,  sir,  you're  very  good :  you've  a  tender  heart,"  said 
Dolly,  going  to  the  door. 

Godfrey  was  too  painfully  preoocupied  to  feel  a  twinge  of 
self-reproach  at  this  undeserved  praise.  He  walked  up  and 
down,  unconscious  that  he  was  plunging  ankle-deep  in  snow, 
unconscious  of  every  thing  but  trembling  suspense  about 
what  was  going  on  in  the  cottage,  and  the  effect  of  each  al- 
ternative on  his  future  lot.  No,  not  quite  unconscious  of 
every  thing  else.  Deeper  down,  and  half-smothered  by  pas- 
sionate desire  and  dread,  there  was  the  sense  that  he  ought 
not  to  be  waiting  on  these  alternatives ;  that  he  ought  to  ac- 
cept the  consequences  of  his  deeds,  own  the  miserable  wife, 
and  fulfill  the  claims  of  the  helpless  child.  But  he  had  not 
moral  courage  enough  to  contemplate  that  active  renuncia- 
tion of  Nancy  as  possible  for  him :  he  had  only  conscience 
and  heart  enough  to  make  him  forever  uneasy  under  the 
weakness  that  forbade  the  renunciation.  And  at  this  mo- 
ment his  mind  leaped  away  from  all  restraint  towards  the 
sudden  prospect  of  deliverance  from  his  long  bondage. 

"  Is  she  dead  ?"  said  the  voice  that  predominated  over 
every  other  within  him.  "  If  she  is,  I  may  marry  Nancy ; 
and  then  I  shall  be  a  good  fellow  in  future,  and  have  no  se- 
crets, and  the  child — shall  be  taken  care  of  somehow."  But 
across  that  vision  came  the  other  possibility — "  She  may  live, 
and  then  it's  all  up  with  me." 

Godfrey  never  knew  how  long  it  was  before  the  door  of  the 
cottage  opened  and  Mr.  Kimble  came  out.  He  went  forward 
to  meet  his  uncle,  prepared  to  suppress  the  agitation  he  must 
feel,  whatever  news  he  was  to  hear. 

"  I  waited  for  you,  as  I'd  come  so  far,"  he  said,  speaking 
first. 

"  Pooh,  it  was  nonsense  for  you  to  come  out :  why  didn't 
you  send  one  of  the  men?  There's  nothing  to  be  done. 
She's  dead — has  been  dead  for  hours,  I  should  say." 

"What  sort  of  a  woman  is  she  ?"  said  Godfrey,  feeling  the 
blood  rush  to  his  face. 

"  A  young  woman,  but  emaciated,  with  long  black  hair. 
Some  vagrant — quite  in  rags.  She's  got  a  wedding-ring  on, 

19* 


442  SILAS  MARKER. 

however.  They  must  fetch  her  away  to  the  workhouse  to- 
morrow. Come,  come  along." 

"  I  want  to  look  at  her,"  said  Godfrey.  "  I  think  I  saw 
such  a  woman  yesterday.  I'll  overtake  you  in  a  minute  or 
two." 

Mr.  Kimble  went  on,  and  Godfrey  turned  back  to  the  cot- 
tage. He  cast  only  one  glance  at  the  dead  face  on  the  pil- 
low, which  Dolly  had  smoothed  with  decent  care  ;  but  he  re- 
membered that  last  look  at  his  unhappy  hated  wife  so  well, 
that  at  the  end  of  sixteen  years  every  line  in  the  worn  face 
was  present  to  him  when4  he  told  the  full  story  of  this  night. 

He  turned  immediately  towards  the  hearth,  where  Silas 
Marner  sat  lulling  the  child.  She  was  perfectly  quiet  now, 
but  not  asleep — only  soothed  by  sweet  porridge  and  warmth 
into  that  wide-gazing  calm  which  makes  us  older  human  be- 
ings, with  our  inward  turmoil,  feel  a  certain  awe  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  little  child,  such  as  we  feel  before  some  quiet  majes- 
ty or  beauty  in  the  earth  or  sky — before  a  steady  glowing 
planet,  or  a  full-flowered  eglantine,  or  the  bending  trees  over 
a  silent  pathway.  The  wide-open  blue  eyes  looked  up  at 
Godfrey's  without  any  uneasiness  or  sign  of  recognition  :  the 
child  could  make  no  visible  audible  claim  on  its  father ;  and 
the  father  felt  a  strange  mixture  of  feelings,  a  conflict  of  re- 
gret and  joy,  that  the  pulse  of  that  little  heart  had  no  re- 
sponse for  the  half-jealous  yearning  in  his  own,  when  the  blue 
eyes  turned  away  from  him  slowly,  and  fixed  themselves  on 
the  weaver's  queer  face,  which  was  bent  low  down  to  look  at 
them,  while  the  small  hand  began  to  pull  Marner's  withered 
cheek  with  loving  disfiguration. 

"  You'll  take  the  child  to  the  parish  to-morrow  ?"  a«kcd 
Godfrey,  speaking  as  indifferently  as  he  could. 

"  Who  says  so  ?"  said  Marner,  sharply.  "  Will  +hey  make 
me  take  her  ?" 

"  Why,  you  wouldn't  like  to  keep  her,  should  you — an  old 
bachelor  like  you  ?" 

"  Till  any  body  shows  they've  a  right  to  take  her  away  from 
me,"  said  Marner.  "  The  mother's  dead,  and  I  reckon  it's  got 
no  father :  it's  a  lone  thing — and  I'm  a  lone  thing.  My  mon- 
ey's gone,  I  don't  know  where  —  and  this  is  come  from  1 
don't  know  where.  I  know  nothing — I'm  partly  mazed." 

"  Poor  little  thing  !"  said  Godfrey.  "  Let  me  give  some- 
thing towards  finding  it  clothes." 

He  had  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  found  half  a  guinea, 
and,  thrusting  it  into  Silas's  hand,  he  hurried  out  of  the  cot- 
tage to  overtake  Mr.  Kimble. 

"Ah,  I  see  it's  not  the  same  woman  I  saw,"  he  said,  as  he 


SILAS   MAKNER.  443 

came  up.  "  It's  a  pretty  little  child  :  the  old  fellow  seems  to 
want  to  keep  it ;  that's  strange  for  a  miser  like  him.  But  I 
gave  him  a  trifle  to  help  him  out :  the  parish  isn't  likely  to 
quarrel  with  him  for  the  right  to  keep  the  child." 

"  No  ;  but  I've  seen  the  time  when  I  might  have  quarrelled 
with  him  for  it  myself.  It's  too  late  now,  though.  If  the 
child  ran  into  the  fire,  your  aunt's  too  fat  to  overtake  it :  she 
could  only  sit  and  grunt  like  an  alarmed  sow.  But  what  a 
fool  you  are,  Godfrey,  to  come  out  in  your  dancing  shoes  and 
stockings  in  this  way — and  you  one  of  the  beaux  of  the  eve- 
ning, and  at  your  own  house  !  What  do  you  mean  by  such 
freaks,  young  fellow  ?  Has  Miss  Nancy  been  cruel,  and  do 
you  want  to  spite  her  by  spoiling  your  pumps  ?" 

"  Oh,  every  thing  has  been  disagreeable  to-night.  I  was 
tired  to  death  of  jigging  and  gallanting,  and  that  bother 
about  the  hornpipes.  And  I'd  got  to  dance  with  the  other 
Miss  Gunn,"  said  Godfrey,  glad  of  the  subterfuge  his  uncle 
had  suggested  to  him. 

The  prevarication  and  white  lies  which  a  mind  that  keeps 
itself  ambitiously  pure  is  as  uneasy  under  as  a  great  artist 
under  the  false  touches  that  no  eye  detects  but  his  own,  are 
worn  as  lightly  as  mere  trimmings  when  once  the  actions 
have  become  a  lie. 

Godfrey  reappeared  in  the  White  Parlor  with  dry  feet, 
and,  since  the  truth  must  be  told,  with  a  sense  of  relief  and 
gladness  that  was  too  strong  for  painful  thoughts  to  struggle 
with.  For  could  he  not  venture  now,  whenever  opportunity 
offered,  to  say  the  tenderest  things  to  Nancy  Lammeter — to 
promise  her  and  himself  that  he  would  always  be  just  what 
she  would  desire  to  see  him  ?  There  was  no  danger  that  his 
dead  wife  would  be  recognized  :  those  were  not  days  of  act- 
ive inquiry  and  wide  report ;  and  as  for  the  registry  of  their 
marriage,  that  was  a  long  way  off,  buried  in  unturned  pages, 
away  from  every  one's  interest  but  his  own.  Dunsey  might 
betray  him  if  he  came  back ;  but  Dunsey  might  be  won  to 
silence. 

And  when  events  turn  out  so  much  better  for  a  man  than 
he  has  had  reason  to  dread,  is  it  not  a  proof  that  his  conduct 
has  been  less  foolish  and  blameworthy  than  it  might  other- 
wise have  appeared  ?  When  we  are  treated  well,  we  natu- 
rally begin  to  think  that  we  are  not  altogether  unmeritori- 
ous,  and  that  it  is  only  just  we  should  treat  ourselves  well, 
and  not  mar  our  own  good  fortune.  Where,  after  all,  would 
be  the  use  of  his  confessing  the  past  to  Nancy  Lammeter, 
and  throwing  away  his  happiness  ?— nay,  hers  ?  for  he  felt 
some  confidence  that  she  loved  him.  As  for  the  child,  he 


444  SILAS   MAKNER. 

would  see  that  it  was  cared  for :  he  would  never  forsake  it ; 
he  would  do  every  thing  but  own  it.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
just  as  happy  in  life  without  being  owned  by  its  father,  see- 
ing that  nobody  could  tell  how  things  would  turn  out,  and 
that — is  there  any  other  reason  wanted  ? — well,  then,  that 
the  father  would  be  much  happier  without  owning  the  child. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THERE  was  a  pauper's  burial  that  week  in  Raveloe,  and 
up  Kench  Yard  at  Batherley  it  was  known  that  the  dark- 
haired  woman  with  the  fair  child,  who  had  lately  come  to 
lodge  there,  was  gone  away  again.  That  was  all  the  express 
note  taken  that  Molly  had  disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  men. 
But  the  unwept  death  which,  to  the  general  lot,  seemed  as 
trivial  as  the  summer-shed  leaf,  was  charged  with  the  force 
of  destiny  to  certain  human  lives  that  we  know  of,  shaping 
their  joys  and  sorrows  even  to  the  end. 

Silas  Mamer's  determination  to  keep  the  "  tramp's  child  " 
was  matter  of  hardly  less  surprise  and  iterated  talk  in  the  vil- 
lage than  the  robbery  of  his  money.  That  softening  of  feel- 
ing towards  him  which  dated  from  his  misfortune,  that  merg- 
ing of  suspicion  and  dislike  in  a  rather  contemptuous  pity  for 
him  as  lone  and  crazy,  was  now  accompanied  with  a  more 
active  sympathy,  especially  amongst  the  women.  Notable 
mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  keep  children  "  whole  and 
sweet ;"  lazy  mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  interrupt- 
ed in  folding  their  arms  and  scratching  their  elbows  by  the 
mischievous  propensities  of  children  just  firm  on  their  legs, 
were  equally  interested  in  conjecturing  how  a  lone  man  would 
manage  with  a  two-year-old  child  on  his  hands,  and  were 
equally  ready  with  their  suggestions  ;  the  notable  chiefly  tell- 
ing him  what  he  had  better  do,  and  the  lazy  ones  being  em- 
phatic in  telling  him  what  he  would  never  be  able  to  do. 

Among  the  notable  mothers,  Dolly  Winthrop  was  the  one 
whose  neighborly  offices  were  the  most  acceptable  to  Mar- 
ner,  for  they  were  rendered  without  any  show  of  bustling  in- 
struction. Silas  had  shown  her  the  half  guinea  given  to  him 
by  Godfrey,  and  had  asked  her  what  he  should  do  about  get- 
ting some  clothes  for  the  child. 

"  Eh,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  "  there's  no  call  to  buy, 
no  more  nor  a  pair  o'  shoes ;  for  I've  got  the  little  petticoats 
as  Aaron  wore  five  years  ago,  and  it's  ill  spending  the  money 


SILAS    MARNEK.  445 

on  them  baby-clothes,  for  the  child  'ull  grow  like  grass  i' 
May,  bless  it — that  it  will." 

And  the  same  day  Dolly  brought  her  bundle,  and  dis- 
played to  Marner,  one  by  one,  the  tiny  garments  in  their  due 
order  of  succession,  most  of  them  patched  and  darned,  but 
clean  and  neat  as  fresh-sprung  herbs.  This  was  the  intro- 
duction to  a  great  ceremony  with  soap  and  water,  from  which 
baby  came  out  in  new  beauty,  and  sat  on  Dolly's  knee,  hand- 
ling her  toes  and  chuckling  and  patting  her  palms  together 
with  an  air  of  having  made  several  discoveries  about  herself, 
which  she  communicated  by  alternate  sounds  of  "  gug-gug- 
gug,"  and  "  mammy."  The  "  mammy  "  was  not  a  cry  of 
need  or  uneasiness ;  Baby  had  been  used  to  utter  it  without 
expecting  either  tender  sound  or  touch  to  follow. 

"  Any  body  'ud  think  the  angils  in  heaven  couldn't  be 
prettier,"  said  Dolly,  rubbing  the  golden  curls  and  kissing 
them.  "  And  to  think  of  its  being  covered  wi'  them  dirty 
rags — and  the  poor  mother — froze  to  death  ;  but  there's  Them 
as  took  care  of  it,  and  brought  it  to  your  door,  Master  Mar- 
ner. The  door  was  open,  and  it  walked  in  over  the  snow, 
like  as  if  it  had  been  a  little  starved  robin.  Didn't  you  say 
the  door  was  open  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  meditatively.  "  Yes — the  door  was  open. 
The  money's  gone  I  don't  know  where,  and  this  is  come  from 
I  don't  know  where." 

He  had  not  mentioned  to  any  one  his  unconsciousness  of 
the  child's  entrance,  shrinking  from  questions  which  might 
lead  to  the  fact  he  himself  suspected — namely,  that  he  had 
been  in  one  of  his  trances. 

"  Ah,"  said  Dolly,  with  soothing  gravity,  "  it's  like  the 
night  and  the  morning,  and  the  sleeping  and  the  waking,  and 
the  rain  and  the  harvest — one  goes  and  the  other  comes,  and 
we  know  nothing  how  nor  where.  We  may  strive  and  scrat 
and  fend,  but  it's  little  we  can  do  arter  all — the  big  things 
come  and  go  wi'  no  striving  o'  our'n — they  do,  that  they  do ; 
and  I  think  you're  in  the  right  on  it  to  keep  the  little  un, 
Master  Marner,  seeing  as  it's  been  sent  to  you,  though  there's 
folks  as  thinks  different.  You'll  happen  be  a  bit  moithered 
,with  it  while  it's  so  little ;  but  I'll  come,  and  welcome,  and 
see  to  it  for  you  :  I've  a  bit  o'  time  to  spare  most  days,  for 
when  one  gets  up  betimes  i'  the  morning,  the  clock  seems  to 
stan'  still  tow'rt  ten,  afore  it's  time  to  go  about  the  victual. 
So,  as  I  say,  I'll  come  and  see  to  the  child  for  you,  and  wel- 
come." 

"Thank  you  .  .  .  kindly,"  said  Silas, hesitating  a  little. 
"  I'll  be  glad  if  you'll  tell  me  things.  But,"  he  added,  un- 


446  SILAS   MARKER. 

easily,  leaning  forward  to  look  at  baby  with  some  jealousy, 
as  she  was  resting  her  head  backward  against  Dolly's  arm, 
and  eying  him  contentedly  from  a  distance — "  But  I  want 
to  do  things  for  it  myself,  else  it  may  get  fond  o'  somebody 
else,  and  not  fond  o'  me.  I've  been  used  to  fending  for  my- 
self in  the  house — I  can  learn,  I  can  learn." 

"  Eh,  to  be  sure,"  said  Dolly,  gently.  "  I've  seen  men  as 
are  wonderful  handy  wi'  children.  The  men  are  awk'arcl 
and  contrary  mostly,  God  help  'em — but  when  the  drink's 
out  of  'em,  they  aren't  unsensible,  though  they're  bad  for 
leeching  and  bandaging — so  fiery  and  impatient.  You  see 
this  goes  first,  next  the  skin,"  proceeded  Dolly,  taking  up  the 
little  shirt,  and  putting  it  on. 

"  Yes,"  said  Marner,  docilely,  bringing  his  eyes  very  close, 
that  they  might  be  initiated  in  the  mysteries;  whereupon 
Baby  seized  his  head  with  both  her  small  arms,  and  put  her 
lips  against  his  face  with  purring  noises. 

"  See  there,"  said  Dolly,  with  a  woman's  tender  tact,  "  she's 
fondest  o'  you.  She  want's  to  go  o'  your  lap,  I'll  be  bound. 
Go,  then :  take  her,  Master  Marner ;  you  can  put  the  things 
on,  and  then  you  can  say  as  you've  done  for  her  from  the 
first  of  her  coming  to  you." 

Marner  took  her  on  his  lap,  trembling  with  an  emotion 
mysterious  to  himself,  at  something  unknown  dawning  on 
his  life.  Thought  and  feeling  were  so  confused  within  him, 
that  if  he  had  tried  to  give  them  utterance,  he  could  only 
have  said  that  the  child  was  come  instead  of  the  gold — that 
the  gold  had  turned  into  the  child.  He  took  the  garments 
from  Dolly,  and  put  them  on  under  her  teaching  ;  interrupt- 
ed, of  course,  by  Baby's  gymnastics. 

"  There,  then  !  why,  you  take  to  it  quite  easy,  Master  Mar- 
ner," said  Dolly ;  "  but  what  shall  you  do  when  you're  forced 
to  sit  in  your  loom  ?  For  she'll  get  busier  and  mischievons- 
er  every  day — she  will,  bless  her.  It's  lucky  as  you've  got 
that  high  hearth  i'stead  of  a  grate,  for  that  keeps  the  fire 
more  out  of  her  reach  :  but  if  you've  got  any  thing  as  can  be 
spilt  or  broke,  or  as  is  fit  to  cut  her  fingers  off,  she'll  be  at  it 
— and  it  is  but  right  you  should  know." 

Silas  meditated  a  little  while  in  some  perplexity.  "  I'll 
tie  her  to  the  leg  o'  the  loom,"  he  said  at  last — "  tie  her  with 
a  good  long  strip  o'  something." 

"  Well,  mayhap  that'll  do,  as  it's  a  little  gell,  for  they're 
easier  persuaded  to  sit  i'  one  place  nor  the  lads.  I  know 
what  the  lads  are ;  for  I've  had  four — four  I've  had,  God 
knows — and  if  you  was  to  take  and  tie  'cm  up,  they'd  make 
a  fighting  and  a  crying  as  if  you  was  ringing  the  pigs.  But 


SILAS   MARKER.  447 

I'll  bring  you  my  little  chair,  and  some  bits  o'  red  rag  and 
things  for  her  to  play  wi';  an'  she'll  sit  and  chatter  to  'em 
as  if  they  was  alive.  Eh,  if  it  wasn't  a  sin  to  the  lads  to 
wish  'em  made  different,  bless  'em,  I  should  ha'  been  glad 
for  one  of  'em  to  be  a  little  gell ;  and  to  think  as  I  could  ha' 
taught  her  to  scour,  and  mend,  and  the  knitting,  and  every 
thing.  But  I  can  teach  'em  this  little  un,  Master  Marner, 
when  she  gets  old  enough." 

"  But  she'll  be  my  little  un,"  said  Marner,  rather  hastily. 
"She'll  be  nobody  else's." 

"  No,  to  be  sure ;  you'll  have  a  right  to  her,  if  you're  a 
father  to  her,  and  bring  her  up  according.  But,"  added 
Dolly,  coming  to  a  point  which  she  had  determined  before- 
hand to  touch  upon,  "  you  must  bring  her  up  like  christened 
folks's  children,  and  take  her  to  church,  and  let  her  learn  her 
catechise,  as  my  little  Aaron  can  say  off — the  '  I  believe,'  and 
every  thing,  and  '  hurt  nobody  by  word  or  deed,' — as  well  as 
if  he  was  the  clerk.  That's  what  you  must  do,  Master  Mar- 
ner, if  you'd  do  the  right  thing  by  the  orphan  child." 

Marner's  pale  face  flushed  suddenly  under  a  new  anxiety. 
His  mind  was  too  busy  ti'ying  to  give  some  definite  bearing 
to  Dolly's  words  for  him  to  think  of  answering  her. 

"  And  it's  my  belief,"  she  went  on,  "  as  the  poor  little 
creature  has  never  been  christened,  and  it's  nothing  but  right 
as  the  parson  should  be  spoke  to ;  and  if  you  was  noways 
unwilling,  I'd  talk  to  Mr.  Macey  about  it  this  very  day. 
For  if  the  child  ever  went  anyways  wrong,  and  you  hadn't 
done  your  part  by  it,  Master  Marner — 'noculation,  and  every 
thing  to  save  it  from  harm — it  'ud  be  a  thorn  i'  your  bed  for- 
ever o'  this  side  the  grave ;  and  I  can't  think  as  it  'ud  be 
easy  lying  down  for  any  body  when  they'd  got  to  another 
world,  if  they  hadn't  done  their  part  by  the  helpless  children 
as  come  wi'out  their  own  asking." 

Dolly  herself  was  disposed  to  be  silent  for  some  time  now, 
for  she  had  spoken  from  the  depths  of  her  own  simple  belief, 
and  was  much  concerned  to  know  whether  her  words  would 
produce  the  desired  effect  on  Silas.  He  was  puzzled  and  anx- 
ious, for  Dolly's  word  "  christened  "  conveyed  no  distinct  mean- 
ing to  him.  He  had  only  heard  of  baptism,  and  had  only  seen 
the  baptism  of  grown-up  men  and  women. 

"  What  is  it  as  you  mean  by '  christened  ?'  "  he  said  at  last, 
timidly.  "  Won't  folks  be  good  to  her  without  it  ?" 

"  Dear,  dear  !  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  with  gentle  dis- 
tress and  compassion.  "  Had  you  never  no  father  nor  mother 
as  taught  you  to  say  your  prayers,  and  as  there's  good  words 
and  good  things  to  keep  us  from  harm?" 


448  SILAS   MARNER. 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  in  a  low  voice  ;  "  I  know  a  deal  about 
that — used  to,  used  to.  But  your  ways  are  different :  my 
country  was  a  good  way  off."  He  paused  a  tew  moments, 
and  then  added,  more  decidedly,  "  But  I  want  to  do  every 
thing  as  can  be  done  for  the  child.  And  whatever's  right  for 
it  i'  this  country,  and  you  think  'ull  do  it  good,  I'll  act  ac- 
cording, if  you'll  tell  me." 

"  Well,  then,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  inwardly  rejoiced, 
"  I'll  ask  Mr.  Macey  to  speak  to  the  parson  about  it ;  and  you 
must  fix  on  a  name  for  it,  because  it  must  have  a  name  giv'  it 
when  it's  christened." 

"  My  mother's  name  was  Hephzibah,"  said  Silas,  "  and  my 
Uttle  sister  was  named  after  her." 

"  Eh,  that's  a  hard  name,"  said  Dolly.  "  I  partly  think  it 
Isn't  a  christened  name." 

"  It's  a  Bible  name,"  said  Silas,  old  ideas  recurring. 

"  Then  I've  no  call  to  speak  again'  it,"  said  Dolly,  rather 
startled  by  Silas's  knowledge  on  this  head ;  "  but  you  see  I'm 
no  scholard,  and  I'm  slow  at  catching  the  words.  My  husband 
says  I'm  allays  like  as  if  I  was  putting  the  haft  for  the  handle 
— that's  what  he  says — for  he's  very  sharp,  God  help  him.  But 
it  was  awk'ard  calling  your  little  sister  by  such  a  hard  name, 
when  you'd  got  nothing  big  to  say,  like — wasn't  it,  Master 
Marner  ?" 

"  We  called  her  Eppie,"  said  Silas. 

"  Well,  if  it  was  noways  wrong  to  shorten  the  name,  it  'ud 
be  a  deal  handier.  And  so  I'll  go  now,  Master  Marner,  and  I'll 
speak  about  the  christening  afore  dark ;  and  I  wish  you  the 
best  o'  luck,  and  it's  my  belief  as  it'll  come  to  you,  if  you  do 
what's  right  by  the  orphan  child  ; — and  there's  the  'noculation 
to  be  seen  to ;  and  as  to  washing  its  bits  o'  things,  you  need 
look  to  nobody  but  me,  for  I  can  do  'em  wi'  one  hand  when  I've 
got  my  suds  about.  Eh,  the  blessed  angil !  You'll  let  me 
bring  my  Aaron  one  o'  these  days,  and  he'll  show  her  his  little 
cart  as  his  father's  made  for  him,  and  the  black-and-white  pup 
as  he's  got  a-rearing." 

Baby  was  christened,  the  rector  deciding  that  a  double 
baptism  was  the  lesser  risk  to  incur ;  and  on  this  occasion  Si- 
las, making  himself  as  clean  and  tidy  as  he  could,  appeared 
for  the  first  time  within  the  church,  and  shared  in  the  observ- 
ances held  sacred  by  his  neighbors.  He  was  quite  unable,  by 
means  of  any  thing  he  heard  or  saw,  to  identify  the  Raveloe 
religion  with  his  old  faith  ;  if  he  could  at  any  time  in  his  pre- 
vious life  have  done  so,  it  must  have  been  by  the  aid  of  a 
strong  feeling  ready  to  vibrate  with  sympathy,  rather  than 
by  a  comparison  of  phrases  and  ideas :  and  now  for  long  years 


SILAS    MARKER.  449 

that  feeling  had  been  dormant.  He  had  no  distinct  idea  about 
the  baptism  and  the  church-going,  except  that  Dolly  had  said 
it  was  for  the  good  of  the  child  ;  and  in  this  way,  as  the  weeks 
grew  to  months,  the  child  created  fresh  and  fresh  links  be- 
tween his  life  and  the  lives  from  which  he  had  hitherto 
shrunk  continually  into  narrower  isolation.  Unlike  the  gold 
which  needed  nothing,  and  must  be  worshipped  in  close-locked 
solitude — which  was  hidden  away  from  the  daylight,  was  deaf 
to  the  song  of  birds,  and  started  to  no  human  tones — Eppie 
was  a  creature  of  endless  claims  and  ever-growing  desires, 
seeking  and  loving  sunshine,  and  living  sounds,  and  living 
movements ;  making  trial  of  every  thing,  with  trust  in  new 
joy,  and  stirring  the  human  kindness  in  all  eyes  that  looked 
on  her.  The  gold  had  kept  his  thoughts  in  an  ever-repeated 
circle,  leading  to  nothing  beyond  itself;  but  Eppie  was  an  ob- 
ject compacted  of  changes  and  hopes  that  forced  his  thoughts 
onward,  and  carried  them  far  away  from  their  old  eager  pacing 
towards  the  same  blank  limit — carried  them  away  to  the  new 
things  that  would  come  with  the  coming  years,  when  Eppie 
would  have  learned  to  understand  how  her  father  Silas  cared 
for  her ;  and  made  him  look  for  images  of  that  time  in  the 
ties  and  charities  that  bound  together  the  families  of  his  neigh- 
bors. The  gold  had  asked  that  he  should  sit  weaving  longer 
and  longer,  deafened  and  blinded  more  and  more  to  all  things 
except  the  monotony  of  his  loom  and  the  repetition  of  his  web ; 
but  Eppie  called  him  away  from  his  weaving,  and  made  him 
think  all  its  pauses  a  holiday,  re-awakening  his  senses  with 
her  fresh  life,  even  to  the  old  winter-flies  that  came  crawling 
forth  in  the  early  spring  sunshine,  and  warming  him  into  joy 
because  she  had  joy. 

And  when  the  sunshine  grew  strong  and  lasting,  so  that 
the  buttercups  were  thick  in  the  meadows,  Silas  might  be 
seen  in  the  sunny  mid-day,  or  in  the  late  afternoon  when  the 
shadows  were  lengthening  under  the  hedgeroAvs,  strolling  out 
with  uncovered  head  to  carry  Eppie  beyond  the  Stone-pits  to 
where  the  flowers  grew,  till  they  reached  some  favorite  bank 
where  he  could  sit  down,  while  Eppie  toddled  to  pluck  the 
flowers,  and  make  remarks  to  the  winged  things  that  mur- 
mured happily  above  the  bright  petals,  calling  "  Dad-dad's  " 
attention  continually  by  bringing  him  the  flowers.  Then  she 
Avould  turn  her  ear  to  some  sudden  bird-note,  and  Silas  learn- 
ed to  please  her  by  making  signs  of  hushed  stillness,  that 
they  might  listen  for  the  note  to  come  again :  so  that  when 
it  came,  she  set  up  her  small  back  and  laughed  with  gurgling 
triumph.  Sitting  on  the  banks  in  this  way,  Silas  began  to 
look  for  the  once  familiar  herbs  again;  and  as  the  leaves, 


450  SILAS   MARNER. 

with  their  unchanged  outline  and  markings,  lay  on  his  palm, 
there  was  a  sense  of  crowding  remembrances  from  which  he 
turned  away  timidly,  taking  refuge  in  Eppie's  little  world, 
that  lay  lightly  on  his  enfeebled  spirit. 

As  the  child's  mind  was  gi'owing  into  knowledge,  his  mind 
was  growing  into  memory  :  as  her  life  unfolded,  his  soul,  long 
stupefied  in  a  cold,  narrow  prison,  was  unfolding  too,  and 
trembling  gradually  into  full  consciousness. 

It  was  an  influence  which  must  gather  force  with  every 
new  year:  the  tones  that  stirred  Silas's  heart  grew  articulate, 
and  called  for  more  distinct  answers;  shapes  and  sounds 
grew  clearer  for  Eppie's  eyes  and  ears,  and  there  was  more 
that  "  Dad-dad  "  was  imperatively  required  to  notice  and  ac- 
count for.  Also,  by  the  time  Eppie  was  three  years  old,  she 
developed  a  fine  capacity  for  mischief,  and  for  devising  inge- 
nious ways  of  being  troublesome,  which  found  much  exercise, 
not  only  for  Silas's  patience,  but  for  his  watchfulness  and 
penetration.  Sorely  was  poor  Silas  puzzled  on  such  occasions 
by  the  incompatible  demands  of  love.  Dolly  Winthrop  told 
him  punishment  was  good  for  Eppie,  and  that,  as  for  rearing 
a  child  without  making  it  tingle  a  little  in  soft  and  safe 
places  now  and  then,  it  was  not  to  be  done. 

"  To  be  sure,  there's  another  thing  you  might  do,  Master 
Marner,"  added  Dolly,  meditatively :  "  you  might  shut  her 
up  once  i'  the  coal-hole.  That  was  what  I  did  wi'  Aaron ; 
for  I  was  that  silly  wi'  the  youngest  lad,  as  I  could  never 
bear  to  smack  him.  Not  as  I  could  find  i'  my  heart  to  let 
him  stay  i'  the  coal-hole  more  nor  a  minute,  but  it  was 
enough  to  colly  him  all  over,  so  as  he  must  be  new  washed 
and  dressed,  and  it  was  as  good  as  a  rod  to  him — that  was. 
Bat  I  put  it  upo'  your  conscience,  Master  Marner,  as  there's  one 
of  'em  you  must  choose — ayther  smacking  or  the  coal-hole — 
else  she'll  get  so  masterful,  there'll  be  no  holding  her." 

Silas  was  impressed  with  the  melancholy  truth  of  this  last 
remark  ;  but  his  force  of  mind  failed  before  the  only  two  pe- 
nal methods  open  to  him,  not  only  because  it  was  painful  to 
him  to  hurt  Eppie,  but  because  he  trembled  at  a  moment's 
contention  with  her,  lest  she  should  love  him  the  less  for  it. 
Let  even  an  affectionate  Goliath  get  himself  tied  to  a  small 
tender  thing,  dreading  to  hurt  it  by  pulling,  and  dreading 
still  more  to  snap  the  cord,  and  which  of  the  two,  pray,  will 
be  master  ?  It  was  clear  that  Eppie,  with  her  short  toddling 
steps,  must  lead  father  Silas  a  pretty  dance  on  any  fine  morn- 
ing when  circumstances  favored  mischief. 

For  example.  He  had  wisely  chosen  a  broad  strip  of  linen 
as  a  means  of  fastening  her  to  his  loom  when  he  was  busy : 


SILAS   MARNER.  451 

it  made  a  broad  belt  round  her  waist,  and  was  long  enough 
to  allow  of  her  reaching  the  truckle-bed  and  sitting  down  on 
it,  but  not  long  enough  for  her  to  attempt  any  dangerous 
climbing.  One  bright  summer's  morning  Silas  had  been 
more  engrossed  than  usual  in  "  setting  up "  a  new  piece  of 
work,  an  occasion  on  which  his  scissors  were  in  requisition. 
These  scissors,  owing  to  an  especial  warning  of  Dolly's,  had 
been  kept  carefully  out  of  Eppie's  reach ;  but  the  click  of 
them  had  had  a  peculiar  attraction  for  her  ear,  and,  watching 
the  results  of  that  click,  she  had  derived  the  philosophic  les- 
son that  the  same  cause  would  produce  the  same  effect.  Si- 
las had  seated  himself  in  his  loom,  and  the  noise  of  weaving 
had  begun  ;  but  he  had  left  Ids  scissors  on  a  ledge  which  Ep- 
pie's arm  was  long  enough  to  reach ;  and  now,  like  a  small 
mouse,  watching  her  opportunity,  she  stole  quietly  from  her 
corner,  secured  the  scissors,  and  toddled  to  the  bed  again,  set- 
ting up  her  back  as  a  mode  of  concealing  the  fact.  She  had 
a  distinct  intention  as  to  the  use  of  the  scissors;  and  having 
cut  the  linen  strip  in  a  jagged  but  eftectual  manner,  in  two 
moments  she  had  run  out  at  the  open  door  where  the  sunshine 
was  inviting  her,  while  poor  Silas  believed  her  to  be  a  better 
child  than  usual.  It  was  not  until  he  happened  to  need  his 
scissors  that  the  terrible  fact  burst  upon  him :  Eppie  had  run 
out  by  herself — had  perhaps  fallen  into  the  Stone-pit.  Silas, 
shaken  by  the  worst  fear  that  could  have  befallen  him,  rush- 
ed out,  calling  "  Eppie  !"  and  ran  eagerly  about  the  unen- 
closed space,  exploring  the  dry  cavities  into  which  she  might 
have  fallen,  and  then  gazing  with  questioning  dread  at  the 
smooth  red  surface  of  the  water.  The  cold  drops  stood  on 
his  brow.  How  long  had  she  been  out?  There  was  one 
hope — that  she  had  crept  through  the  stile  and  got  into  the 
fields,  where  he  habitually  took  her  to  stroll.  But  the  grass 
was  high  in  the  meadow,  and  there  was  no  descrying  her,  if 
she  were  there,  except  by  a  close  search  that  would  be  a  tres- 
pass on  Mr.  Osgood's  crop.  Still,  that  misdemeanor  must  be 
committed  ;  and  poor  Silas,  after  peering  all  round  the  hedge- 
rows, traversed  the  grass,  beginning  with  perturbed  vision  to 
see  Eppie  behind  every  group  of  red  sorrel,  and  to  see  her 
moving  always  farther  off  as  he  approached.  The  meadow 
was  searched  in  vain  ;  and  he  got  over  the  stile  into  the  next 
field,  looking  with  dying  hope  towards  a  small  pond  which 
was  now  reduced  to  its  summer  shallowness,  so  as  to  leave  a 
wide  margin  of  good  adhesive  mud.  Here,  however,  sat  Ep- 
pie, discoursing  cheerfully  to  her  own  small  boot,  which  she 
was  using  as  a  bucket  to  convey  the  water  into  a  deep  hoof- 
mark,  while  her  little  naked  foot  was  planted  comfortably  on 


452  SILAS    MARNER. 

a  cushion  of  olive-green  mud.     A  red-headed  calf  was  observ- 
ing her  with  alarmed  doubt  through  the  opposite  hedge. 

Here  was  clearly  a  case  of  aberration  in  a  christened  child 
which  demanded  severe  treatment ;  but  Silas,  overcome  with 
convulsive  joy  at  finding  his  treasure  again,  could  do  nothing 
but  snatch  her  up,  and  cover  her  with  half-sobbing  kisses. 
It  was  not  until  he  had  carried  her  home,  and  had  begun  to 
think  of  the  necessary  washing,  that  he  recollected  the  need 
that  he  should  punish  Eppie,  and  "  make  her  remember." 
The  idea  that  she  might  run  away  again  and  come  to  harm, 
gave  him  unusual  resolution,  and  for  the  first  time  he  deter- 
mined to  try  the  coal-hole — a  small  closet  near  the  hearth. 

"  Naughty,  naughty  Eppie,"  he  suddenly  began,  holding 
her  on  his  knee,  and  pointing  to  her  muddy  feet  and  clothes 
— "  naughty  to  cut  with  the  scissors  and  run  away.  Eppie 
must  go  into  the  coal-hole  for  being  naughty.  Daddy  must 
put  her  in  the  coal-hole." 

He  half  expected  that  this  would  be  shock  enough,  and 
that  Eppie  would  begin  to  cry.  But  instead  of  that,  she  be- 
gan to  shake  herself  on  his  knee,  as  if  the  proposition  opened 
a  pleasing  novelty.  Seeing  that  he  must  proceed  to  extremi- 
ties, he  put  her  into  the  coal-hole,  and  held  the  door  closed, 
with  a  trembling  sense  that  he  was  using  a  strong  measure. 
For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  but  then  came  a  little  cry, 
"  Opy>  °PV  •"  an<^  Silas  let  her  out  again,  saying,  "  Now  Ep- 
pie 'ull  never  be  naughty  again,  else  she  must  go  in  the  coal- 
hole— a  black  naughty  place." 

The  weaving  must  stand  still  &  long  while  this  morning, 
for  now  Eppie  must  be  washed,  and  have  clean  clothes  on ; 
but  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  this  punishment  would  have  a 
lasting  effect,  and  save  time  in  future — though,  perhaps,  it 
would  have  been  better  if  Eppie  had  cried  more. 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  clean  again,  and  Silas  having  turn- 
ed his  back  to  see  what  he  could  do  with  the  linen  band, 
threw  it  down  again,  with  the  reflection  that  Eppie  would  be 
good  without  fastening  for  the  rest  of  the  morning.  He 
turned  round  again,  and  was  going  to  place  her  in  her  little 
chair  near  the  loom,  when  she  peeped  oat  at  him  with  black 
face  and  hands  again,  and  said,  "  Eppie  in  de  toal-hole  !" 

This  total  failure  of  the  coal-hole  discipline  shook  Silas's  be- 
lief in  the  efficacy  of  punishment.  "  She'd  take  it  all  for  fun," 
he  observed  to  Dolly,  "  if  I  didn't  hurt  her,  and  that  I  can't 
do,  Mrs.  Winthrop.  If  she  makes  me  a  bit  o'  trouble,  1  can 
bear  it.  And  she's  got  no  tricks  but  what  she'll  grow  out  of." 

"Well,  that's  partly  true,  Master  Marner."  said  Polly, 
sympathetically ;  "  and  if  you  can't  bring  your  mind  to 


SILAS    MARNER.  453 

frighten  her  off  touching  things,  you  must  do  what  you  can 
to  keep  'em  out  of  her  way.  That's  what  I  do  wi'  the  pups 
as  the  lads  are  allays  a-rearing.  They  will  worry  and  gnaw 
— worry  and  gnaw  they  will,  if  it  was  one's  Sunday  cap  as 
hung  anywhere  so  as  they  could  drag  it.  They  know  no  dif- 
ference, God  help  'em :  it's  the  pushing  o'  the  teeth  as  sets 
'em  on,  that's  what  it  is." 

So  Eppie  was  reared  without  punishment,  the  burden  of  her 
misdeeds  being  borne  vicariously  by  father  Silas.  The  stone 
hut  was  made  a  soft  nest  for  her,  lined  with  downy  patience : 
and  also  in  the  world  that  lay  beyond  the  stone  hut  she 
knew  nothing  of  frowns  and  denials. 

Notwithstanding  the  difficulty  of  carrying  her  and  his 
yarn  or  linen  at  the  same  time,  Silas  took  her  with  him  in 
most  of  his  journeys  to  the  farm-houses,  unwilling  to  leave  her 
behind  at  Dolly  Winthrop's,  who  was  always  ready  to  take 
care  of  her :  and  little  curly-headed  Eppie,  the  weaver's  child, 
became  an  object  of  interest  at  several  outlying  homesteads, 
as  well  as  in  the  village.  Hitherto  he  had  been  treated  very 
much  as  if  he  had  been  a  useful  gnome  or  brownie — a  queer 
and  unaccountable  creature,  who  must  necessarily  be  looked 
at  with  wondering  curiosity  and  repulsion,  and  with  whom 
one  would  be  glad  to  make  all  greetings  and  bargains  as 
brief  as  possible,  but  who  must  be  dealt  with  in  a  propitia- 
tory way,  and  occasionally  have  a  present  of  pork  or  garden- 
stuff  to  carry  home  with  him,  seeing  that  without  him  there 
was  no  getting  the  yarn  woven.  But  now  Silas  met  with 
open  smiling  faces  and  cheerful  questionings,  as  a  person 
vhose  satisfactions  and  difficulties  could  be  understood. 
Everywhere  he  must  sit  a  little  and  talk  about  the  child,  and 
words  of  interest  were  always  ready  for  him :  "Ah,  Master 
Marner,  you'll  be  lucky  if  she  takes  the  measles  soon  and 
easy  !" — or,  "  Why,  there  isn't  many  lone  men  'ud  ha'  been 
wishing  to  take  up  with  a  little  un  like  that :  but  I  reckon 
the  weaving  makes  you  handier  than  men  as  do  out-door 
work — you're  partly  as  handy  as  a  woman,  for  weaving  comes 
next  to  spinning."  Elderly  masters  and  mistresses,  seated 
observantly  in  large  kitchen  arm-chairs,  shook  their  heads 
over  the  difficulties  attendant  on  rearing  children,  feltEppie's 
round  arms  and  legs,  and  pronounced  them  remarkably  firm, 
and  told  Silas  that,  if  she  turned  out  well  (which,  however, 
there  was  no  telling),  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  for  him  to 
have  a  steady  lass  to  do  for  him  when  he  got  helpless.  Serv- 
ant maidens  were  fond  of  carrying  her  out  to  look  at  the 
hens  and  chickens,  or  to  see  if  any  cherries  could  be  shaken 
down  in  the  orchard  j  and  the  small  boys  and  girls  approach* 


454  SILAS    MARNER. 

ed  her  slowly,  with  cautious  movement  and  steady  gaze,  like 
little  dogs  face  to  face  with  one  of  their  own  kind,  till  at- 
traction had  reached  the  point  at  which  the  soft  lips  were 
put  out  for  a  kiss.  No  child  was  afraid  of  approaching  Silas 
when  Eppie  was  near  him :  there  was  no  repulsion  ai-ound 
him  now,  either  for  young  or  old ;  for  the  little  child  had  come 
to  link  him  once  more  with  the  whole  world.  There  was 
love  between  him  and  the  child  that  blent  them  into  one, 
and  there  was  love  between  the  child  and  the  world — from 
men  and  women  with  parental  looks  and  tones,  to  the  red 
lady-birds  and  the  round  pebbles. 

Silas  began  now  to  think  of  Raveloe  life  entirely  in  relation 
to  Eppie:  she  must  have  every  thing  that  was  a  good  in 
Raveloe:  and  he  listened  docilely,  that  he  might  come  to 
understand  better  what  this  life  was,  from  which,  for  fifteen 
years,  he  had  stood  aloof  as  from  a  strange  thing,  wherewith 
he  could  have  no  communion:  as  some  man  who  has  a  pre- 
cious plant  to  which  he  would  give  a  nurturing  home  in  a 
new  soil,  thinks  of  the  rain,  and  the  sunshine,  and  all  influ- 
ences, in  relation  to  his  nursling,  and  asks  industriously  for 
all  knowledge  that  will  help  him  to  satisfy  the  wants  of  the 
searching  roots,  or  to  guard  leaf  and  bud  from  invading  harm. 
The  disposition  to  hoo,rd  had  been  utterly  crushed  at  the 
very  first  by  the  loss  of  his  long-stored  gold :  the  coins  he 
earned  afterwards  seemed  as  irrelevant  as  stones  brought  to 
complete  a  house  suddenly  buried  by  an  earthquake;  the 
sense  of  bereavement  was  too  heavy  upon  him  for  the  old 
thrill  of  satisfaction  to  rise  again  at  the  touch  of  the  newly- 
earned  coin.  And  now  something  had  come  to  replace  his 
hoard  which  gave  a  growing  purpose  to  the  earnings,  draw- 
ing his  hope  and  joy  continually  onward  beyond  the  money. 

In  old  days  there  were  angels  who  came  and  took  men  by 
the  hand  and  led  them  away  from  the  city  of  destruction. 
We  see  no  white-winged  angels  now.  But  yet  men  are  led 
away  from  threatening  destruction :  a  hand  is  put  into 
theirs,  which  leads  them  forth  gently  towards  a  calm  and 
bright  land,  so  that  they  look  no  more  backward ;  and  the 
hand  may  be  a  little  child's. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THERE  was  one  person,  as  you  will  believe,  who  watched 
with  keener  though  more  hidden  interest  than  any  other,  the 
prosperous  growth  of  Eppie  under  the  weaver's  care.  lie 


SILAS    MARKER.  45o 

dared  not  do  any  thing  that  would  imply  a  stronger  interest 
in  a  poor  man's  adopted  child  than  could  be  expected  from 
the  kindliness  of  the  young  Squire,  when  a  chance  meeting 
suggested  a  little  present  to  a  simple  old  fellow  whom  others 
noticed  with  good-will ;  but  he  told  himself  that  the  time 
would  come  when  he  might  do  something  towards  furthering 
the  welfare  of  his  daughter  without  incurring  suspicions. 
Was  he  very  uneasy  in  the  mean  time  at  his  inability  to  give 
his  daughter  her  birthright  ?  I  can  not  say  that  he  was. 
The  child  was  being  taken  care  of,  and  would  very  likely  be 
happy,  as  people  in  humble  stations  often  were — happier, 
perhaps,  than  those  who  are  brought  up  in  luxury. 

That  famous  ring  that  pricked  its  owner  when  he  forgot 
duty  and  followed  desire — I  wonder  if  it  pricked  very  hard 
when  he  set  out  on  the  chase,  or  whether  it  pricked  but 
lightly  then,  and  only  pierced  to  the  quick  when  the  chase 
had  long  been  ended,  and  hope,  folding  her  wings,  looked 
backward  and  became  regret? 

Godfrey  Cass's  cheek  and  eye  were  brighter  than  ever 
now.  He  was  so  undivided  in  his  aims,  that  he  seemed  like 
a  man  of  firmness.  No  Dunsey  had  come  back  :  people  had 
made  up  their  minds  that  he  was  gone  for  a  soldier  or  gone 
'•  out  of  the  country,"  and  no  one  cared  to  be  specific  in  their 
inquiries  on  a  subject  delicate  to  a  respectable  family.  God- 
frey had  ceased  to  see  the  shadow  of  Dunsey  across  his  path; 
and  the  path  now  lay  straight  forward  to  the  accomplishment 
of  his  best,  longest-cherished  wishes.  Every  body  said  Mr. 
Godfrey  had  taken  the  right  turn ;  and  it  was  pretty  clear 
what  would  be  the  end  of  things,  for  there  were  not  many 
days  in  the  week  that  he  was  not  seen  riding  to  the  Warrens. 
Godfrey  himself,  when  he  was  asked  jocosely  if  the  day  had 
been  fixed,  smiled  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  a  lover 
Avho  could  say  "  yes,"  if  he  liked.  He  felt  a  reformed  man, 
delivered  from  temptation ;  and  the  vision  of  his  future  life 
seemed  to  him  as  a  promised  land  for  which  he  had  no  cause 
to  fight.  He  saw  himself  with  all  his  happiness  centred  on 
his  own  hearth,  while  Nancy  would  smile  on  him  as  he  played 
with  the  children. 

And  that  other  child  not  on  tl.e  hearth — he  would  not  for- 
get it ;  he  would  see  that  it  was  well  provided  for.  That 
a  father's  duty. 


456  SILAS   HAKNEK. 


PART  H. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IT  was  a  bright  autumn  Sunday,  sixteen  years  after  Silas 
Marner  had  found  his  new  treasure  on  the  hearth.  The  bells 
of  the  old  Raveloe  church  were  ringing  the  cheerful  peal 
which  told  that  the  morning  service  was  ended  ;  and  out  of 
the  arched  doorway  in  the  tower  came  slowly,  retarded  by 
friendly  greetings  and  questions,  the  richer  parishioners  who 
had  chosen  this  bright  Sunday  morning  as  eligible  for  church- 
going.  It  was  the  rural  fashion  of  that  time  for  the  more  im- 
portant members  of  the  congregation  to  depart  first,  while 
their  humbler  neighbors  waited  and  looked  on,  stroking  their 
bent  heads  or  dropping  their  courtesies  to  any  large  ratepay- 
er who  turned  to  notice  them. 

Foremost  among  these  advancing  groups  of  well-clad  peo- 
ple, there  are  some  whom  we  shall  recognize,  in  spite  of  Time, 
who  has  laid  his  hand  on  them  all.  The  tall  blond  man  of 
forty  is  not  much  changed  in  feature  from  the  Godfrey  Cass 
of  six-and-twenty :  he  is  only  fuller  in  flesh,  and  has  only  lost 
the  indefinable  look  of  youth — a  loss  which  is  marked  even 
when  the  eye  is  undulled  and  the  wrinkles  are  ijot  yet 
come.  Perhaps  the  pretty  woman,  not  much  younger  than 
he,  who  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  is  more  changed  than  her  hus- 
band :  the  lovely  bloom  that  used  to  be  always  on  her  cheek 
now  comes  but  fitfully,  with  the  fresh  morning  air  or  with 
some  strong  surprise ;  yet  to  all  who  love  human  faces  best 
for  what  they  tell  of  human  experience,  Nancy's  beauty  has 
a  heightened  interest.  Often  the  soul  is  ripened  into  fuller 
goodness  while  age  has  spread  an  ugly  film,  so  that  mere 
glances  can  never  divine  the  preciousness  of  the  fruit.  But  the 
years  have  not  been  so  cruel  to  Nancy.  The  firm  yet  placid 
mouth,  the  clear  veracious  glance  of  the  brown  eyes,  speak 
now  of  a  nature  that  has  been  tested  and  has  kept  its  highest 
qualities  ;  and  even  the  costume,  with  its  dainty  neatness  and 
purity,  has  more  significance  now  the  coquetries  of  youth  ca» 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 


SILAS  MAENER.  457 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  (any  higher  title  has  died  away 
from  Raveloe  lips  since  the  old  Squire  was  gathered  to  his 
fathers  and  his  inheritance  was  divided)  have  turned  round 
to  look  for  the  tall  aged  man  and  the  plainly  dressed  woman 
who  are  a  little  behind — Nancy  having  observed  that  they 
must  wait  for  "  father  and  Priscilla  " — and  now  they  all  turn 
into  a  narrower  path  leading  across  the  churchyard  to  a  small 
gate  opposite  the  Red  House.  We  will  not  follow  them 
now ;  for  may  there  not  be  some  others  in  this  departing 
congregation  whom  we  should  like  to  see  again — some  of 
those  who  are  not  likely  to  be  handsomely  clad,  and  whom 
we  may  not  recognize  so  easily  as  the  master  and  mistress  of 
the  Red  House  ? 

But  it  is  impossible  to  mistake  Silas  Marner.  His  large 
brown  eyes  seem  to  have  gathered  a  longer  vision,  as  is  the 
way  with  eyes  that  have  been  short-sighted  in  early  life,  and 
they  have  a  less  vague,  a  more  answering  look ;  but  in  every 
thing  else  one  sees  signs  of  a  frame  much  enfeebled  by  the 
lapse  of  the  sixteen  years.  The  weaver's  bent  shoulders  and 
white  hair  give  him  almost  the  look  of  advanced  age,  though 
he  is  not  more  than  five-and-fifty ;  but  there  is  the  freshest 
blossom  of  youth  close  by  his  side — a  blonde  dimpled  girl  of 
eighteen,  who  has  vainly  tried  to  chastise  her  curly  auburn 
hair  into  smoothness  under  her  brown  bonnet :  the  hair  rip- 
ples as  obstinately  as  a  brooklet  under  the  March  breeze,  and 
the  little  ringlets  burst  away  from  the  restraining  comb  be- 
hind and  show  themselves  below  the  bonnet-crown.  Eppie 
can  not  help  being  rather  vexed  about  her  hair,  for  there  is 
no  other  girl  in  Raveloe  who  has  hair  at  all  like  it,  and  she 
thinks  hair  ought  to  be  smooth.  She  does  not  like  to  be 
blameworthy  even  in  small  things :  you  see  how  neatly  her 
prayer-book  is  folded  in  her  spotted  handkerchief. 

That  good-looking  young  fellow,  in  a  new  fustian  suit,  who 
walks  behind  her,  is  not  quite  sure  upon  the  question  of  hair 
in  the  abstract,  when  Eppie  puts  it  to  him,  and  thinks  that 
perhaps  straight  hair  is  the  best  in  general,  but  he  doesn't 
want  Eppie's  hair  to  be  different.  She  surely  divines  that 
there  is  some  one  behind  her  who  is  thinking  about  her  very 
particularly,  and  mustering  courage  to  come  to  her  side  as 
soon  as  they  are  out  in  the  lane,  else  why  should  she  look  rath- 
er shy,  and  take  care  not  to  turn  away  her  head  from  her  fa- 
ther Silas,  to  whom  she  keeps  murmuring  little  sentences  as 
to  who  was  at  church,  and  who  was  not  at  church,  and  how 
pretty  the  red  mountain-ash  is  over  the  Rectory  wall  ? 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  little  garden,  father,  with  double  daisies 
in,  like  Mrs.  Winthrop's,"  said  Eppie,  when  they  were  out  in 

20 


458  SILAS   MARKER. 

the  lane ;  "  only  they  say  it  'ud  take  a  deal  of  digging  and 
bringing  fresh  soil — and  you  couldn't  do  that,  could  you,  fa- 
ther ?  Anyhow,  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  do  it,  for  it  'ud  be  too 
hard  work  for  you." 

"  Yes,  I  could  do  it,  child,  if  you  want  a  bit  o'  garden  : 
these  long  evenings,  I  could  work  at  taking  in  a  little  bit  o' 
the  waste,  just  enough  for  a  root  or  two  o'  flowers  for  you ; 
and  again,  i'  the  morning,  I  could  have  a  turn  wi'  the  spade 
before  I  sat  down  to  the  loom.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  be- 
fore as  you  wanted  a  bit  o'  garden  ?" 

"  I  can  dig  it  for  you,  Master  Marner,"  said  the  young  man 
in  fustian,  who  was  now  by  Eppie's  side,  entering  into  the 
conversation  without  the  trouble  of  formalities.  "  It'll  be 
play  to  me  after  I've  done  my  day's  work,  or  any  odd  bits  o' 
time  when  the  work's  slack.  And  I'll  bring  you  some  soil 
from  Mr.  Cass's  garden — he'll  let  me,  and  willing." 

"  Eh,  Aaron,  my  lad,  are  you  there  ?"  said  Silas ;  "  I  wasn't 
aware  of  you  ;  for  when  Eppie's  talking  o'  things,  I  see  noth- 
ing but  what  she's  a-saying.  Well,  if  you  could  help  me  with 
the  digging,  we  might  get  her  a  bit  o'  garden  all  the  sooner." 

"  Then  if  you  think  well  and  good,"  said  Aaron,  "  I'll  come 
to  the  Stonepits  this  afternoon,  and  we'll  settle  what  land's 
to  be  taken  in,  and  I'll  get  up  an  hour  earlier  i'  the  morning, 
and  begin  on  it." 

"  But  not  if  you  don't  promise  me  not  to  work  at  the  hard 
digging,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "  For  I  shouldn't  ha'  said  any 
thing  about  it,"  she  added,  half-bashfully,half-roguishly,"  only 
MrsrWinthrop  said  as  Aaron  'ud  be  so  good,  and — " 

"  And  you  might  ha'  known  it  without  mother  telling  you," 
said  Aaron.  "  And  Master  Marner  knows  too,  I  hope,  as  I'm 
able  and  willing  to  do  a  turn  o'  work  for  him,  and  he  won't 
do  me  the  unkindness  to  anyways  take  it  out  o'  my  hands." 

"  There  now,  father,  you  won't  work  in  it  till  it's  all  easy," 
said  •  Eppie,  "  and  you  and  me  can  mark  out  the  beds,  and 
make  holes  and  plant  the  roots.  It'll  be  a  deal  livelier  at  the 
Stonepits  when  we've  got  some  flowers,  for  I  always  think 
the  flowers  can  see  us  and  know  what  we're  talking  about. 
And  I'll  have  a  bit  o'  rosemary,  and  bergamot,  and  thyme, 
because  they're  so  sweet-smelling ;  but  there's  no  lavender 
only  in  the  gentlefolks'  gardens,  I  think." 

"That's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  some," said 
Aaron,  "  for  I  can  bring  you  slips  of  any  thing ;  I'm  forced  to 
cut  no  end  of  'em  when  I'm  gardening,  and  throw  'em  away 
mostly.  There's  a  big  bed  o'  lavender  at  the  Red  House : 
the  missis  is  very  fond  of  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Silas,  gravely,  "  so  as  you  don't  make  free  for 


SILAS   MARNER.  459 

us,  or  ask  for  any  thing  as  is  worth  much  at  the  Red  House : 
for  Mr.  Cass's  been  so  good  to  us,  and  built  us  up  the  new 
end  o'  the  cottage,  and  given  us  beds  and  things,  as  I  couldn't 
abide  to  be  imposin'  for  garden-stuff  or  any  thing  else." 

"No,  no,  there's  no  imposin',"  said  Aaron  ;  "there's  never 
a  garden  in  all  the  parish  but  what  there's  endless  waste  in 
it  for  want  o'  somebody  as  could  use  every  thing  up.  It's  what 
I  think  to  myself  sometimes,  as  there  need  -nobody  run  short 
o'  victuals  if  the  land  was  made  the  most  on,  and  there  was 
never  a  morsel  but  what  could  find  its  way  to  a  mouth.  It 
sets  one  thinking  o'  that — gardening  does.  But  I  must  go 
back  now,  else  mother  ull'  be  in  trouble  as  I  aren't  there." 

"  Bring  her  with  you  this  afternoon,  Aaron,"  said  Eppie ; 
"  I  shouldn't  like  to  fix  about  the  garden,  and  her  not  know 
every  thing  from  the  first — should  you,  father  ?" 

"Ay,  bring  her  if  you  can,  Aaron,"  said  Silas;  "she's  sure 
to  have  a  word  to  say  as'll  help  us  to  set  things  on  their  right 
end." 

Aaron  turned  back  up  the  village,  while  Silas  and  Eppie 
went  on  up  the  lonely  sheltered  lane. 

"  Oh,  daddy  !"  she  began,  when  they  were  in  privacy,  clasp- 
ing and  squeezing  Silas's  arm,  and  skipping  round  to  give 
him  an  energetic  kiss.  "  My  little  old  daddy  !  I'm  so  glad. 
I  don't  think  I  shall  want  any  thing  else  when  we've  got  a 
little  garden ;  and  I  knew  Aaron  would  dig  it  for  us,"  she 
went  on  with  roguish  triumph — "  I  knew  that  very  well." 

"  You're  a  deep  little  puss,  you  are,"  said  Silas,  with  the 
mild  passive  happiness  of  love-crowned  age  in  his  face ;  "  but 
you'll  make  yourself  fine  and  beholden  to  Aaron." 

"  Oh  no,  I  sha'n't,"  said  Eppie,  laughing  and  frisking ;  "  he 
likes  it." 

"  Come,  come,  let  me  carry  your  prayer-book,  else  you'll  be 
dropping  it,  jumping  i'  that  way." 

Eppie  was  now  aware  that  her  behavior  was  under  obser- 
vation, but  it  was  only  the  observation  of  a  friendly  donkey, 
browsing  with  a  log  fastened  to  his  foot — a  meek  donkey,  not 
scornfully  critical  of  human  trivialities,  but  thankful  to  share 
in  them,  if  possible,  by  getting  his  nose  scratched ;  and  Eppie 
did  not  fail  to  gratify  him  with  her  usual  notice,  though  it 
was  attended  with  the  inconvenience  of  his  following  them, 
painfully,  up  to  the  very  door  of  their  home. 

But  the  sound  of  a  sharp  bark  inside,  as  Eppie  put  the  key 
in  the  door,  modified  the  donkey's  views,  and  he  limped  away 
again  without  bidding.  The  sharp  bark  was  the  sign  of  an  ex- 
cited welcome  that  was  awaiting  them  from  a  knowing  brown 
terrier,  who,  after  dancing  at  their  legs  in  an  hysterical  man* 


460  SILAS   MARNER. 

ner,  rushed  with  a  worrying  noise  at  a  tortoise-shell  kitten 
under  the  loom,  and  then  rushed  back  with  a  sharp  bark  again, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  have  done  my  duty  by  this  feeble  crea- 
ture, you  perceive ;"  while  the  lady-mother  of  the  kitten  sat 
sunning  her  white  bosom  in  the  window,  and  looked  round 
with  a  sleepy  air  of  expecting  caresses,  though  she  was  not 
going  to  take  any  trouble  for  them. 

The  presence  of  this  happy  animal  life  was  not  the  only 
change  which  had  come  over  the  interior  of  the  stone  cottage. 
There  was  no  bed  now  in  the  living-room,  and  the  small  space 
was  well  tilled  with  decent  furniture,  all  bright  and  clean 
enough  to  satisfy  Dolly  Winthrop's  eye.  The  oaken  table 
and  three-cornered  oaken  chair  were  hardly  what  was  likely 
to  be  seen  in  so  poor  a  cottage :  they  had  come,  with  the  beds 
and  other  things,  from  the  Red  House  ;  for  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass, 
as  every  one  said  in  the  village,  did  very  kindly  by  the 
weaver ;  and  it  was  nothing  but  right  a  man  should  be  look- 
ed on  and  helped  by  those  who  could  afford  it,  when  he  had 
brought  up  an  orphan  child,  and  been  father  and  mother  to 
her — and  had  lost  his  money  too,  so  as  he  had  nothing  but 
what  he  worked  for  week  by  week,  and  when  the  weaving 
was  going  down  too — for  there  was  less  and  less  flax  spun — 
and  Master  Marner  was  none  so  young.  Nobody  was  jealous 
of  the  weaver,  for  he  wras  regarded  as  an  exceptional  person, 
whose  claims  on  neighborly  help  were  not  to  be  matched  in 
Raveloe.  Any  superstition  that  remained  concerning  him 
had  taken  an  entirely  new  color;  and  Mr.  Macey,  now  a  very 
feeble  old  man  of  fourscore  and  six,  never  seen  except  in  his 
chimney-corner  or  sitting  in  the  sunshine  at  his  door-sill,  was 
of  opinion  that  when  a  man  had  done  what  Silas  had  done  by 
an  orphan  child,  it  was  a  sign  that  his  money  would  come  to 
light  again,  or  leastwise  that  the  robber  would  be  made  to 
answer  for  it — for,  as  Mr.  Macey  observed  of  himself,  his  fac- 
ulties were  as  strong  as  ever. 

Silas  sat  down  now  and  watched  Eppie  with  a  satisfied  gaze 
as  she  spread  the  clean  cloth,  and  set  on  it  the  potato-pie, 
warmed  up  slowly  in  a  safe  Sunday  fashion,  by  being  put  into 
a  dry  pot  over  a  slowly-dying  fire,  as  the  best  substitute  for  an 
oven.  For  Silas  would  not  consent  to  have  a  grate  and  oven 
added  to  his  conveniences :  he  loved  the  old  brick  hearth  as  he 
had  loved  his  brown  pot — and  was  it  not  there  when  he  had 
found  Eppie  ?  The  gods  of  the  hearth  exist  for  us  still ;  and 
let  all  new  faith  be  tolerant  of  that  fetishism,  lest  it  bruise  its 
own  roots. 

Silas  ate  his  dinner  more  silently  than  usual,  soon  laying 
down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  watching  half-abstractedly  Ep- 


SILAS   MARNER.  461 

pie's  play  with  Snap  and  the  cat,  by  which  her  own  dining 
was  made  rather  a  lengthy  business.  Yet  it  was  a  sight  that 
might  well  arrest  wandering  thoughts :  Eppie,  with  the  rip- 
pling radiance  of  her  hair  and  the  whiteness  of  her  rounded 
chiu  and  throat  set  ofT  by  the  dark-blue  cotton  gown,  laugh- 
ing merrily  as  the  kitten  held  on  with  her  four  claws  to  one 
shoulder,  like  a  design  for  a  jug-handle,  while  Snap  on  the 
right  hand  and  Puss  on  the  other  put  up  their  paws  towards 
a  morsel  which  she  held  out  of  the  reach  of  both — Snap  occa- 
sionally desisting  in  order  to  remonstrate  with  the  cat  by  a 
cogent  worrying  growl  on  the  greediness  and  futility  of  her 
conduct ;  till  Eppie  relented,  caressed  them  both,  and  divided 
the  morsel  between  them. 

But  at  last  Eppie,  glancing  at  the  clock,  checked  the  play, 
and  said,  "  Oh,  daddy,  you're  wanting  to  go  into  the  sunshine 
to  smoke  your  pipe.  But  I  must  clear  away  first,  so  as  the 
house  may  be  tidy  when  godmother  comes.  I'll  make  haste 
— I  won't  be  long." 

Silas  had  taken  to  smoking  a  pipe  daily  during  the  last  two 
years,  having  been  strongly  urged  to  it  by  the  sages  of  Ra- 
veloe,  as  a  practice  "  good  for  the  fits ;"  and  this  advice  was 
sanctioned  by  Dr.  Kimble,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  as  well 
to  try  what  could  do  no  harm — a  principle  which  was  made 
to  answer  for  a  great  deal  of  work  in  that  gentleman's  medical 
practice.  Silas  did  not  highly  enjoy  smoking,  and  often  won- 
dered how  his  neighbors  could  be  so  fond  of  it;  but  a  humble 
sort  of  acquiescence  in  what  was  held  to  be  good,  had  become 
a  strong  habit  of  that  new  self  which  had  been  developed  in 
him  since  he  had  found  Eppie  on  his  hearth  :  it  had  been  the 
only  clue  his  bewildered  mind  could  hold  by  in  cherishing 
this  young  life  that  had  been  sent  to  him  out  of  the  darkness 
into  which  his  gold  had  departed.  By  seeking  what  was 
needful  for  Eppie,  by  sharing  the  effect  that  every  thing  pro- 
duced on  her,  he  had  himself  come  to  appropriate  the  forms 
of  custom  and  belief  which  were  the  mould  of  Raveloe  life ; 
and  as,  with  re-awakening  sensibilities,  memory  also  re- 
awakened, he  had  begun  to  ponder  over  the  elements  of  his 
old  faith,  and  blend  them  with  his  new  impressions,  till  he  re- 
covered a  consciousness  of  unity  between  his  past  and  present. 
The  sense  of  presiding  goodness  and  the  human  trust  which 
come  with  all  pure  peace  and  joy,  had  given  him  a  dim  im- 
pression that  there  had  been  some  error,  some  mistake,  which 
had  thrown  that  dark  shadow  over  the  days  of  his  best  years ; 
and  as  it  grew  more  and  more  easy  to  him  to  open  his  mind 
to  Dolly  Winthrop,  he  gradually  communicated  to  her  all  he 
could  describe  of  his  early  life.  The  communication  was  nec« 


462  SILAS   MARNER. 

essarily  a  slow  and  difficult  process,  for  Silas's  meagre  power 
of  explanation  was  not  aided  by  any  readiness  of  interpreta- 
tion in  Dolly,  whose  narrow  outward  experience  gave  her  no 
key  to  strange  customs,  and  made  every  novelty  a  source  of 
wonder  that  arrested  them  at  every  step  of  the  narrative. 
It  was  only  by  fragments,  and  at  intervals  which  left  Dolly 
time  to  revolve  what  she  had  heard  till  it  acquired  some  fa- 
miliarity for  her,  that  Silas  at  last  arrived  at  the  climax  of  the 
sad  story — the  drawing  of  lots,  and  its  false  testimony  con- 
cerning him ;  and  this  had  to  be  repeated  in  several  inter- 
views, under  new  questions  on  her  part  as  to  the  nature 
of  this  plan  for  detecting  the  guilty  and  clearing  the  inno- 
cent. 

"  And  yourn's  the  same  Bible,  you're  sure  o'  that,  Master 
Marner — the  Bible  as  you  brought  wi'  you  from  that  country 
— it's  the  same  as  what  they've  got  at  church,  and  what  Ep- 
pie's  a-learning  to  read  in  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  "  every  bit  the  same  ;  and  there's  draw- 
ing o'  lots  in  the  Bible,  mind  you,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone. 

"  Oh  dear,  dear,"  said  Dolly  in  a  grieved  voice,  as  if  she  were 
hearing  an  unfavorable  report  of  a  sick  man's  case.  She  was 
silent  for  some  minutes ;  at  last  she  said — 

"  There's  wise  folks,  happen,  as  know  how  it  all  is  ;  the  par- 
son knows,  I'll  be  bound  ;  but  it  takes  big  words  to  tell  them 
things,  and  such  as  poor  folks  can't  make  much  out  on.  I  can 
never  rightly  know  the  meaning  o'  what  I  hear  at  church,  only 
a  bit  here  and  there,  but  I  know  it's  good  words — I  do.  But 
what  lies  upo'  your  mind — it's  this,  Master  Marner :  as,  if 
Them  above  had  done  the  right  thing  by  you,  They'd  never 
ha'  let  you  be  turned  out  for  a  wicked  thief  when  you  was 
innicent." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Silas,  who  had  now  come  to  understand  Dolly's 
phraseology,  "  that  was  what  fell  on  me  like  as  if  it  had  been 
red-hot  iron ;  because,  you  see,  there  was  nobody  as  cared  for 
me  or  clave  to  me  above  nor  below.  And  him  as  I'd  gone 
out  and  in  wi'  for  ten  year  and  more,  since  when  we  was  lads 
and  went  halves — mine  own  famil'ar  friend,  in  whom  I  trusted, 
and  lifted  up  his  heel  again'  me,  and  worked  to  ruin  me." 

"  Eh,  but  he  was  a  bad  un — I  can't  think  as  there's  an- 
other such,"  said  Dolly.  "  But  I'm  o'ercome,  Master  Mar- 
ner ;  I'm  like  as  if  I'd  waked  and  didn't  know  whether  it  was 
night  or  morning.  I  feel  somehow  as  sure  as  I  do  when  I've 
laid  something  up  though  I  can't  justly  put  my  hand  on  it, 
as  there  was  a  rights  in  what  happened  to  you,  if  one  could 
but  make  it  out ;  and  you'd  no  call  to  lose  heart  as  you  did. 
But  we'll  talk  on  it  again ;  for  sometimes  things  come  into 


SILAS   MAENER.  463 

my  head  when  I'm  leeching  or  poulticing,  or  such,  as  I  could 
never  think  on  when  I  was  sitting  still." 

Dolly  was  too  useful  a  woman  not  to  have  many  opportu- 
nities of  illumination  of  the  kind  she  alluded  to,  and  she  was 
not  long  before  she  recurred  to  the  subject. 

"  Master  Marner,"  she  said,  one  day  that  she  came  to  bring 
home  Eppie's  washing, "  I've  been  sore  puzzled  for  a  good 
bit  \vi'  that  trouble  o'  yourn  and  the  drawing  o'  lots ;  and  it 
got  twisted  back'ards  and  for'ards,  as  I  didn't  know  which 
end  to  lay  hold  on.  But  it  come  to  me  all  clear  like,  that 
night  when  I  was  sitting  up  wi'  poor  Bessy  Fawkes,  as  is 
dead  and  left  her  children  behind,  God  help  'em — it  come  to 
me  as  clear  as  daylight:  but  whether  I've  got  hold  on  it 
now,  or  can  anyways  bring  it  to  my  tongue's  end,  that  I  don't 
know.  For  I've  often  a  deal  inside  me  as  '11  niver  come  out ; 
and  for  what  you  talk  o'  your  folks  in  your  old  country  niver 
saying  prayers  by  heart  nor  saying  'em  out  of  a  book,  they 
must  be  wonderful  cliver  ;  for  if  I  didn't  know  '  Our  Father,' 
and  little  bits  o'  good  words  as  I  can  carry  out  o'  church  wi' 
me,  I  might  down  o'  my  knees  every  night,  but  nothing  could 
I  say." 

"  But  you  can  mostly  say  something  as  I  can  make  sense 
on,  Mrs.  Winthrop,"  said  Silas. 

"  Well,  then,  Master  Marner,  it  come  to  me  summat  like 
this :  I  can  jnake  nothing  o'  the  drawing  o'  lots  and  the  an- 
swer coming  wrong ;  it  'ud  mayhap  take  the  parson  to  tell 
that,  and  he  could  only  tell  us  i'  big  words.  But  what  come 
to  me  as  clear  as  the  daylight,  it  was  when  I  was  troubling 
over  poor  Bessy  Fawkes,  and  it  allays  comes  into  my  head  when 
I'm  sorry  for  folks,  and  feel  as  I  can't  do  a  power  to  help  'em, 
not  if  I  was  to  get  up  i'  the  middle  o'  the  night — it  comes  into 
my  head  as  Them  above  has  got  a  deal  tenderer  heart  nor  what 
I've  got — for  I  can't  be  anyways  better  nor  Them  as  made  me  ; 
and  if  any  thing  looks  hard  to  me,  it's  because  there's  things 
I  don't  know  on ;  and  for  the  matter  o'  that,  there  may  be 
plenty  o'  things  I  don't  know  on,  for  it's  little  as  I  know — 
that  it  is.  And  so,  while  I  was  thinking  o'  that,  you  come 
into  my  mind,  Master  Marner,  and  it  all  come  pouring  in : 
— if  I  felt  i'  my  inside  what  was  the  right  and  just  thing 
by  you,  and  them  as  prayed  and  drawedthe  lots,  all  but  that 
wicked  un,  if  they'd  ha'  done  the  right  thing  by  you  if  they 
could,  isn't  there  Them  as  was  at  the  making  on  us,  and 
knows  better  and  has  a  better  will  ?  And  that's  all  as  ever 
I  can  be  sure  on,  and  every  thing  else  is  a  big  puzzle  to  me 
when  I  think  on  it.  For  there  was  the  fever  come  and  took 
off  them  as  were  full-growed,  and  left  the  helpless  children  j 


464  SILAS   MARNER. 

and  there's  the  breaking  o'  limbs  ;  and  them  as  'ud  do  right 
and  be  sober  have  to  suffer  by  them  as  are  contrairy — eh, 
there's  trouble  i'  this  world,  and  there's  things  as  we  can  niv- 
er  make  out  the  rights  on.  And  all  as  we've  got  to  do  is  to 
trusten,  Master  Marner — to  do  the  right  thing  as  fur  as  we 
know,  and  to  trusten.  For  if  us  as  knows  so  little  can  see 
a  bit  o'  good  and  rights,  we  may  be  sure  as  there's  a  good 
and  a  rights  bigger  nor  what  we  can  know — I  feel  it  i'  my 
own  inside  as  it  must  be  so.  And  if  you  could  but  ha'  gone 
on  trustening,  Master  Marner,  you  wouldn't  ha'  run  away 
from  your  fellow-creaturs  and  been  so  lone." 

"  Ah,  but  that  'ud  ha'  been  hard,"  said  Silas,  in  an  under- 
tone ;  "  it  'ud  ha'  been  hard  to  trusten  then." 

"  And  so  it  would,"  said  Dolly,  almost  with  compunction ; 
"them  things  are  easier  said  nor  done;  and  I'm  partly 
ashamed  o'  talking." 


more  nor  he  can  see,  i'  spite  o'  the  trouble  and  the  wicked- 
ness. That  drawing  o'  the  lots  is  dark ;  but  the  child  was 
sent  to  me :  there's  dealings  with  us — there's  dealings." 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  Eppie's  earlier  years,  when  Si- 
las had  to  part  with  her  for  two  hours  every  day,  that  she 
might  learn  to  read  at  the  dame  school,  after  he  had  vainly 
tried  himself  to  guide  her  in  that  first  step  to  learning.  Now 
that  she  was  grown  up,  Silas  had  often  been  led,  in  those  mo- 
ments of  quiet  outpouring  which  come  to  people  who  live 
together  in  perfect  love,  to  talk  with  her  too  of  the  past,  and 
how  and  why  he  had  lived  a  lonely  man  until  she  had  been 
sent  to  him.  For  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to 
hide  from  Eppie  that  she  was  not  his  own  child  :  even  if  the 
most  delicate  reticence  on  the  point  could  have  been  expect- 
ed from  Raveloe  gossips  in  her  presence,  her  own  questions 
about  her  mother  could  not  have  been  parried,  as  she  grew  up, 
without  that  complete  shrouding  of  the  past  which  would 
have  made  a  painful  barrier  between  their  minds.  So  Eppic 
had  long  known  how  her  mother  had  died  on  the  snowy 
ground,  and  how  she  herself  had  been  found  on  the  hearth  by 
father  Silas,  who  had  taken  her  golden  curls  for  his  lost  guin- 
eas brought  back  to  him.  The  tender  and  peculiar  love 
with  which  Silas  had  reared  her  in  almost  inseparable  com- 
panionship with  himself,  aided  by  the  seclusion  of  their  dwell- 
ing, had  preserved  her  from  the  lowering  influences  of  the 
village  talk  and  habits,  and  had  kept  her  mind  in  that  fresh- 
ness which  is  sometimes  falsely  supposed  to  be  an  invariable 


SILAS   MARNER.  465 

attribute  of  rusticity.  Perfect  love  has  a  breath  of  poetry 
which  can  exalt  the  relations  of  the  least-instructed  human 
beings;  and  this  breath  of  poetry  had  surrounded  Eppie 
from  the  time  when  she  had  followed  the  bright  gleam  that 
beckoned  her  to  Silas's  hearth  ;  so  that  it  is  not  surprising  if, 
in  other  things  besides  her  delicate  prettiness,  she  was  not 
quite  a  common  village  maiden,  but  had  a  touch  of  refinement 
and  fervor  which  came  from  no  other  teaching  than  that  of 
tenderly-nurtured  un vitiated  feeling.  She  was  too  childish 
and  simple  for  her  imagination  to  rove  into  questions  about 
her  unknown  father ;  for  a  long  while  it  did  not  even  occur 
to  her  that  she  must  have  had  a  father ;  and  the  first  time 
that  the  idea  of  her  mother  having  had  a  husband  presented 
itself  to  her,  was  when  Silas  showed  her  the  wedding-ring 
which  had  been  taken  from  the  wasted  finger,  and  had  been 
carefully  preserved  by  him  in  a  little  lacquered  box  shaped 
like  a  shoe.  He  delivered  this  box  into  Eppie's  charge  when 
she  had  grown  up,  and  she  often  opened  it  to  look  at  the 
ring :  but  still  she  thought  hardly  at  all  about  the  father  of 
whom  it  was  the  symbol.  Had  she  not  a  father  very  close 
to  her,  who  loved  her  better  than  any  real  fathers  in  the  vil- 
lage seemed  to  love  their  daughters  ?  On  the  contrary,  who 
her  mother  was,  and  how  she  came  to  die  in  that  forlornness, 
were  questions  that  often  pressed  on  Eppie's  mind.  Her 
knowledge  of  Airs.  Winthrop,  who  was  her  nearest  friend 
next  to  Silas,  made  her  feel  that  a  mother  must  be  very  prec- 
ious ;  and  she  had  again  and  again  asked  Silas  to  tell  her  how 
her  mother  looked,  whom  she  was  like,  and  how  he  had  found 
her  against  the  furze  bush,  led  towards  it  by  the  little  foot- 
steps and  the  outstretched  arms.  The  furze-bush  was  there 
still ;  and  this  afternoon,  when  Eppie  came  out  with  Silas  into 
the  sunshine,  it  was  the  first  object  that  arrested  her  eyes  and 
thoughts. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  gravity,  which  some- 
times came  like  a  sadder,  slower  cadence  across  her  playful- 
ness, "  we  shall  take  the  furze-bush  into  the  garden ;  it'll  come 
into  the  corner,  and  just  against  it  I'll  put  snowdrops  and 
crocuses,  'cause  Aaron  says  they  won't  die  out,  but '11  always 
get  more  and  more." 

"  Ah,  child,"  said  Silas,  always  ready  to  talk  when  he  had 
his  pipe  in  his  hand,  apparently  enjoying  the  pauses  more 
than  the  puffs,  "  it  wouldn't  do  to  leave  out  the  furze-bush  ; 
and  there's  nothing  prettier,  to  my  thinking,  when  it's  yallow 
with  flowers.  But  it's  just  come  into  my  head  what  we're 
to  do  for  a  fence — mayhap  Aaron  can  help  us  to  a  thought ; 
but  a  fence  we  must  have,  else  the  donkeys  and  things  'ulj 

20* 


466  SILAS   MARNER. 

come  and  trample  every  thing  down.  And  fencing's  hard  to 
be  got  at,  by  what  I  can  make  out." 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  you,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,  clasping  her  hands 
suddenly,  after  a  minute's  thought.  "  There's  lots  o'  loose 
stones  about,  some  of  'em  not  big,  and  we  might  lay  'em 
atop  of  one  another,  and  make  a  wall.  You  and  me  could 
carry  the  smallest,  and  Aaron  'ud  carry  the  rest — I  know  he 
would." 

"  Eh,  my  precious  'un,"  said  Silas,  "  there  isn't  enough 
stones  to  go  all  round  ;  and  as  for  you  carrying,  wi'  your  lit- 
tle arms  you  couldn't  carry  a  stone  no  bigger  than  a  turnip. 
You're  dillicate  made,  my  dear,"  he  added,  with  a  tender  in- 
tonation— "  that's  what  Mrs.  Winthrop  says." 

"  Oh,  I'm  stronger  than  you  think,  daddy,"  said  Eppie ; 
"  and  if  there  wasn't  stones  enough  to  go  all  round,  why 
they'll  go  part  o'  the  way,  and  then  it'll  be  easier  to  get  sticks 
and  things  for  the  rest.  See  here,  round  the  big  pit,  what  a 
many  stones !" 

She  skipped  forward  to  the  pit,  meaning  to  lift  one  of  the 
stones  and  exhibit  her  strength,  but  she  started  back  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  Oh,  father,  just  come  and  look  here,"  she  exclaimed — 
"  come  and  see  how  the  water's  gone  down  since  yesterday. 
Why,  yesterday  the  pit  was  ever  so  full !" 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  Silas,  coming  to  her  side.  "  Why, 
that's  the  draining  they've  begun  on,  since  harvest,  i'  Mr.  Os- 
good's  fields,  I  reckon.  The  foreman  said  to  me  the  other 
day,  when  I  passed  by  'em,  *  Master  Marner,'  he  said,  '  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  we  lay  your  bit  o'  waste  as  dry  as  a 
l;one.'  It  was  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass,  he  said,  had  gone  into  the 
draining :  he'd  been  taking  these  fields  o'  Mr.  Osgood." 

"  How  odd  it'll  seem  to  have  the  old  pit  dried  up  !"  said 
Eppie,  turning  away,  and  stooping  to  lift  rather  a  large  stone. 
"  See,  daddy,  I  can  carry  this  quite  well,"  she  said,  going 
along  with  much  energy  for  a  few  steps,  but  presently  letting 
it  fall. 

"  Ah,  you're  fine  and  strong,  arn't  you  ?"  said  Silas,  while 
Eppie  shook  her  aching  arms  and  laughed.  "  Come,  come, 
let  us  go  and  sit  down  on  the  bank  against  the  stile  there, 
and  have  no  more  lifting.  You  might  hurt  yourself,  child. 
You'd  need  have  somebody  to  work  for  you — and  my  arm 
isn't  over  strong." 

Silas  uttered  the  last  sentence  slowly,  as  if  it  implied  more 
than  met  the  ear ;  and  Eppie,  when  they  sat  down  on  the  bank, 
nestled  close  to  his  side,  and,  taking  hold  caressingly  of  the 
arm  that  was  not  over  strong,  held  it  on  her  lap,  while  Silas 


SILAS   MABNER.  467 

puffed  again  dutifully  at  the  pipe,  which  occupied  his  other 
Arm.  An  ash  in  the  hedgerow  behind  made  a  fretted  screen 
from  the  sun,  and  threw  happy  playful  shadows  all  about 
them. 

"  Father,"  said  Eppie,  very  gently,  after  they  had  been  sit- 
ting in  silence  a  little  while, "  if  I  was  to  be  married,  ought  I 
to  be  married  with  my  mother's  ring  ?" 

Silas  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  start,  though  the  ques- 
tion fell  in  with  the  under-current  of  thought  in  his  own  mind, 
and  then  said,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  Why,  Eppie,  have  you 
been  a-thinking  on  it  ?" 

"  Only  this  last  week,  father,"  said  Eppie,  ingenuously, 
"  since  Aaron  talked  to  me  about  it." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?"  said  Silas,  still  in  the  same  sub- 
dued way,  as  if  he  were  anxious  lest  he  should  fall  into  the 
slightest  tone  that  w.as  not  for  Eppie's  good. 

"  He  said  he  should  like  to  be  married,  because  he  was  a- 
going  in  four-and-twenty,  and  had  got  a  deal  of  gardening 
work,  now  Mr.  Mott's  given  up ;  and  he  goes  twice  a-week 
regular  to  Mr.  Cass's  and  once  to  Mr.  Osgood's,  and  they're 
going  to  take  him  on  at  the  Rectory." 

"  And  who  is  it  as  he's  wanting  to  many  ?"  said  Silas, 
with  rather  a  sad  smile. 

"  Why,  me,  to  be  sure,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,  with  dimpling 
laughter,  kissing  her  father's  cheek;  "as  if  he'd  want  to-mar- 
ry  any  body  else  !" 

"  And  you  mean  to  have  him,  do  you  ?"  said  Silas. 

"  Yes,  some  time,"  said  Eppie,  "  I  don't  know  when.  Every 
body's  married  some  time,  Aaron  says.  But  I  told  him  that 
wasn't  true  :  for,  I  said,  look  at  father — he's  never  been  mar- 
ried." 

"  N"o,  child,"  said  Silas, "  your  father  was  a  lone  man  till  you 
was  sent  to  him." 

"  But  you'll  never  be  lone  again,  father,"  said  Eppie  ten- 
derly. "  That  was  what  Aaron  said — '  I  could  never  think 
o'  taking  you  away  from  Master  Marner,  Eppie.'  And  I  said, 
'  It  'ud  be  no  use  if  you  did,  Aaron.'  And  he  wants  us  all  to 
live  together,  so  as  you  needn't  work  a  bit,  father,  only  what's 
for  your  own  pleasure ;  and  he'd  be  as  good  as  a  son  to  you 
— that  was  what  he  said." 

"  And  should  you  like  that,  Eppie  ?"  said  Silas,  looking  at 
her. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  it,  father,"  said  Eppie,  quite  simply. 
"  And  I  should  like  things  to  be  so  as  you  needn't  work 
much.  But  if  it  wasn't  for  that,  I'd  sooner  things  didn't 
change.  I'm  very  happy :  I  like  Aaron  to  be  fond  of  me,  and 


468  SILAS   MAKNEB. 

come  and  see  us  often,  and  behave  pretty  to  you — he  always 
does  behave  pretty  to  you,  doesn't  he,  father '?" 

"  Yes,  child,  nobody  could  behave  better,"  said  Silas,  em- 
phatically. "  He's  his  mother's  lad." 

"  But  I  don't  want  any  change,"  said  Eppie.  "  I  should 
like  to  go  on  a  long,  long  whilejust  as  we  are.  Only  Aaron 
does  want  a  change  :  and  he  made  me  cry  a  bit — only  a  bit 
— because  he  said  I  didn't  care  for  him,  for  if  I  cared  for  him 
I  should  want  us  to  be  married,  as  he  did." 

"Eh,  my  blessed  child,"  said  Silas,  laying  down  his  pipe  as 
if  it  were  useless  to  pretend  to  smoke  any  longer,  "  you're 
o'er  young  to  be  married.  We'll  ask  Mrs.  Winthrop — we'll 
ask  Aaron's  mother  what  she  thinks ;  if  there's  a  right  thing 
to  do,  she'll  come  at  it.  But  there's  this  to  be  thought  on, 
Eppie :  things  will  change,  whether  we  like  it  or  no ;  things 
won't  go  on  for  a  long  while  just  as  they  are  and  no  differ' 
ence.  1  shall  get  older  and  helplesser,  and  be  a  burden  on 
you,  belike,  if  I  don't  go  away  from  you  altogether.  Not  as 
I  mean  you'd  think  me  a  burden — I  know  you  wouldn't — but 
it  'ud  be  hard  upon  you ;  and  when  I  look  for'ard  to  that,  I 
like  to  think  as  you'd  have  somebody  else  besides  me — some- 
body young  and  strong,  as'll  outlast  your  own  life,  and  take 
care  on  you  to  the  end."  Silas  paused,  and,  resting  his  wrists 
on  his  knees,  lifted  his  hands  up  and  down  meditatively  as 
he  looked  on  the  ground. 

"  Then,  would  you  like  me  to  be  married,  father  ?"  said 
Eppie,  with  a  little  trembling  in  her  voice. 

"  I'll  not  be  the  man  to  say  no,  Eppie,"  said  Silas,  emphat- 
ically ;  "  but  we'll  ask  your  godmother.  She'll  wish  the  right 
thing  by  you  and  her  son  too. " 

"  There  they  come,  then,"  said  Eppie.  "  Let  us  go  and 
meet  'em.  Oh,  the  pipe  !  won't  you  have  it  lit  again,  father '?" 
said  Eppie,  lifting  that  medicinal  appliance  from  the  ground. 

"  Nay,  child,"  said  Silas,  "  I've  done  enough  for  to-day.  I 
think,  mayhap,  a  little  of  it  does  me  more  good  than  so  much 
»t  once." 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

WHILE  Silas  and  Eppie  were  seated  on  the  bank  discours- 
ing in  the  fleckered  shade  of  the  ash-tree,  Miss  Priscilla  Lam- 
meter  was  resisting  her  sister's  arguments,  that  it  would  be 
better  to  stay  tea  at  the  Red  House,  and  let  her  father  have 
a  long  nap,  than  drive  home  to  the  Warrens  so  soon  after  din- 


SILAS    HAKNER.  469 

ner.  The  family  party  (of  four  only)  were  seated  round  the 
table  in  the  dark  wainscoted  parlor,  with  the  Sunday  dessert 
before  them,  of  fresh  filberts,  apples,  and  pears,  duly  ornament- 
ed with  leaves  by  Nancy's  own  hand  before  the  bells  had  rung 
for  church. 

A  great  change  has  come  over  the  dark  wainscoted  parlor 
since  we  saw  it  in  Godfrey's  bachelor  days,  and  under  the  wife< 
lees  reign  of  the  old  Squire.  Now  all  is  polish,  on  which  no 
yesterday's  dust  is  ever  allowed  to  rest,  from  the  yard's  width 
of  oaken  boards  round  the  carpet,  to  the  old  Squire's  gun  and 
whips  and  walking-sticks,  ranged  on  the  stag's  antlers  above 
the  mantel-piece.  All  other  signs  of  sporting  and  out-door 
occupation  Nancy  has  removed  to  another  room  ;  but  she  has 
brought  into  the  Red  House  the  habit  of  filial  reverence,  and 
preserves  sacredly  in  a  place  of  honor  these  relics  of  her  hus- 
band's departed  father.  The  tankards  are  on  the  side-table 
still,  but  the  bossed  silver  is  undimmed  by  handling,  and  there 
are  no  dregs  to  send  forth  unpleasant  suggestions  :  the  only 
prevailing  scent  is  of  the  lavender  and  rose-leaves  that  fill  the 
vases  of  Derbyshire  spar.  All  is  purity  and  order  in  this 
once  dreary  room,  for,  fifteen  years  ago,  it  was  entered  by  a 
new  presiding  spirit. 

"  Now,  father,"  said  Nancy,  "  is  there  any  call  for  you  to 
go  home  to  tea?  Mayn't  you  just  as  well  stay  with  us? — 
such  a  beautiful  evening  as  it's  likely  to  be." 

The  old  gentleman  had  been  talking  with  Godfrey  about 
the  increasing  poor-rate  and  the  ruinous  times,  and  had  not 
heard  the  dialogue  between  his  daughters. 

"  My  dear,  you  must  ask  Priscilla,"  he  said,  in  the  once 
firm  voice,  now  become  rather  broken.  "  She  manages  me 
and  the  farm  too." 

"  And  reason  good  as  I  should  manage  you,  father,"  said 
Priscilla, "  else  you'd  be  giving  yourself  your  death  with  rheu- 
matism. And  as  for  the  farm,  if  any  thing  turns  out  wrong, 
as  it  can't  but  do  in  these  times,  there's  nothing  kills  a  man 
so  soon  as  having  nobody  to  find  fault  with  but  himself.  It's 
a  deal  the  best  way  o'  being  master,  to  let  somebody  else  do 
the  ordering,  and  keep  the  blaming  in  your  own  hands.  It 
"ud  save  many  a  man  a  stroke,  I  believe." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  with  a  quiet  laugh, 
"  I  didn't  say  you  don't  manage  for  every  body's  good." 

"  Then  manage  so  as  you  may  stay  tea,  Priscilla,"  said  Nan- 
cy, putting  her  hand  on  her  sister's  arm  affectionately.  "Come 
now ;  and  we'll  go  round  the  garden  while  father  has  his 
nap." 

"  My  dear  child,  he'll  have  a  beautiful  nap  in  the  gig,  for  I 


470  SILAS   MARKER. 

shall  drive.  And  as  for  staying  tea,  I  can't  hear  of  it ;  for 
there's  this  dairymaid,  now  she  knows  she's  to  be  married, 
turned  Michaelmas,  she'd  as  lief  pour  the  new  milk  into  the 
pig-trough  as  into  the  pans.  That's  the  way  with  'em  all : 
it's  as  if  they  thought  the  world  'ud  be  new-made  because 
they're  to  be  married.  So  come  and  let  me  put  my  bonnet 
on,  and  there'll  be  time  for  us  to  walk  round  the  garden  while 
the  horse  is  being  put  in." 

When  the  sisters  were  treading  the  neatly  swept  garden- 
walks,  between  the  bright  turf  that  contrasted  pleasantly 
with  the  dark  cones  and  arches  and  wall-like  hedges  of  yew, 
Priscilla  said — 

"  I'm  as  glad  as  any  thing  at  your  husband's  making  that 
exchange  o'  land  with  cousin  Osgood,  and  beginning  the  dairy- 
ing. It's  a  thousand  pities  you  didn't  do  it  before ;  for  it'll 
give  you  something  to  fill  your  mind.  There's  nothing  like 
a  dairy  if  folks  want  a  bit  o'  worrit  to  make  the  days  pass. 
For  as  for  rubbing  furniture,  when  yoii  can  once  see  your  face 
in  a  table  there's  nothing  else  to  look  for ;  but  there's  always 
something  fresh  with  the  dairy ;  for  even  in  the  depths  o' 
winter  there's  some  pleasure  in  conquering  the  butter,  and 
making  it  come  whether  or  no.  My  dear,"  added  Priscilla, 
pressing  her  sister's  hand  affectionately  as  they  walked  side 
by  side,  "  you'll  never  be  low  when  you've  got  a  dairy." 

"Ah,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  returning  the  pressure  with 
a  grateful  glance  of  her  clear  eyes,  "  but  it  won't  make  up  to 
Godfrey:  a  dairy's  not  so  much  to  a  man.  And  it's  only 
what  he  cares  for  that  ever  makes  me  low.  I'm  contented 
with  the  blessings  we  have,  if  he  could  be  contented." 

"  It  drives  me  past  patience,"  said  Priscilla,  impetuously, 
"  that  way  o'  the  men  —  always  wanting  and  wanting,  and 
never  easy  with  what  they've  got :  they  can't  sit  comfortable 
in  their  chairs  when  they've  neither  ache  nor  pain,  but  either 
they  must  stick  a  pipe  in  their  mouths,  to  make  'em  better 
than  well,  or  else  they  must  be  swallowing  something  strong, 
though  they're  forced  to  make  haste  before  the  next  meal 
comes  in.  But  joyful  be  it  spoken,  our  father  was  never  that 
sort  o'  man.  And  if  it  had  pleased  God  to  make  you  ugly, 
like  me,  so  as  the  men  wouldn't  ha'  run  after  you,  we  might 
have  kept  to  our  own  family,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  folks 
as  have  got  uneasy  blood  in  their  veins." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  so,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  repenting  that  she 
had  called  forth  this  outburst ;  "  nobody  has  any  occasion  to 
find  fault  with  Godfrey.  It's  natural  he  should  be  disap- 
pointed at  not  having  any  children :  every  man  likes  to  have 
somebody  to  work  for  and  lay  by  for,  and  he  always  counted 


SILAS   MARKER.  471 

so  on  making  a  fuss  with  them  when  they  were  little.  There's 
many  another  man  'ud  hanker  more  than  he  does.  He's  tho 
best  of  husbands." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  said Priscilla,  smiling  sarcastically, "I  know 
the  way  o'  wives ;  they  set  one  on  to  abuse  their  husbands, 
and  then  they  turn  round  on  one  and  praise  'em  as  if  they 
wanted  to  sell  'em.  But  father'll  be  waiting  for  me;  we 
must  turn  now." 

The  large  gig  with  the  steady  old  gray  was  at  the  front 
door,  and  Mr.  Lammeter  was  already  on  the  stone  steps,  pass- 
ing the  time  in  recalling  to  Godfrey  what  very  fine  points 
Speckle  had  when  his  master  used  to  ride  him. 

"  I  always  would  have  a  good  horse,  you  know,"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  not  liking  that  spirited  time  to  be  quite  effaced 
from  the  memory  of  his  juniors. 

"  Mind  you  bring  Nancy  to  the  Warrens  before  the  week's 
out,  Mr.  Cass,"  was  Priscilla's  parting  injunction,  as  she  took 
the  reins,  and  shook  them  gently,  by  way  of  friendly  incite- 
ment to  Speckle. 

"I  shall  just  take  a  turn  to  the  fields  against  the  Stone- 
pits,  Nancy,  and  look  at  the  draining,"  said  Godfrey. 

"  You'll  be  in  again  by  tea-time,  dear  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour." 

It  was  Godfrey's  custom  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  to  do  a 
Httle  contemplative  farming  in  a  leisurely  walk.  Nancy  sel- 
dom accompanied  him ;  for  the  women  of  her  generation — 
unless,  like  Priscilla,  they  took  to  outdoor  management — were 
not  given  to  much  walking  beyond  their  own  house  and  gar- 
den, finding  sufficient  exercise  in  domestic  duties.  So,  when 
Priscilla  was  not  with  her,  she  usually  sat  with  Mant's  Bible 
before  her,  and  after  following  the  texA  with  her  eyes  for  a 
little  while,  she  would  gradually  permit  them  to  wander  as 
her  thoughts  had  already  insisted  on  wandering. 

But  Nancy's  Sunday  thoughts  were  rarely  quite  out  of 
keeping  with  the  devout  and  reverential  intention  implied  by 
the  book  spread  open  before  her.  She  was  not  theologically 
instructed  enough  to  discern  very  clearly  the  relation  be- 
tween the  sacred  documents  of  the  past  which  she  opened 
without  method,  and  her  own  obscure,  simple  life ;  but  the  spir- 
it of  rectitude,  and  the  sense  of  responsibility  for  the  effect  of 
her  conduct  on  others,  which  were  strong  elements  in  Nancy's 
character,  had  made  it  a  habit  with  her  to  scrutinize  her  past 
feelings  and  actions  with  self-questioning  solicitude.  Her 
mind  not  being  courted  by  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  she 
filled  the  vacant  moments  by  living  inwardly,  again  and 
again,  through  all  her  remembered  experience,  especially 


472  SILAS  MAKNER. 

through  the  fifteen  years  of  her  married  time,  in  which  het 
life  and  its  significance  had  been  doubled.  She  recalled  the 
small  details,  the  words,  tones,  and  looks,  in  the  critical  scenes 
which  had  opened  a  new  epoch  for  her,  by  giving  her  a  deep- 
er insight  into  the  relations  and  trials  of  life,  or  which  had 
called  on  her  for  some  little  effort  of  forbearance,  or  of  pain- 
ful adherence  to  an  imagined  or  real  duty — asking  herself 
continually  whether  she  had  been  in  any  respect  blamable. 
This  excessive  rumination  and  self-questioning  is  perhaps  a 
morbid  habit  inevitable  to  a  mind  of  much  moral  sensibility 
when  shut  out  from  its  due  share  of  outward  activity  and  of 
practical  claims  on  its  affections — inevitable  to  a  noble-heart- 
ed, childless  woman,  when  her  lot  is  narrow.  "  I  can  do  so 
little — have  I  done  it  all  well  ?"  is  the  perpetually  recurring 
thought ;  and  there  are  no  voices  calling  her  away  from  that 
soliloquy,  no  peremptory  demands  to  divert  energy  from  vain 
regret  or  superfluous  scruple. 

There  was  one  main  thread  of  painful  experience  in  Nan- 
cy's married  life,  and  on  it  hirtig  certain  deeply-felt  scenes, 
which  were  the  oftenest  revived  in  retrospect.  The  short 
dialogue  with  Priscilla  in  the  garden  had  determined  the  cur- 
rent of  retrospect  in  that  frequent  direction  this  particular 
Sunday  afternoon.  The  first  wandering  of  her  thought  from 
the  text,  which  she  still  attempted  dutifully  to  follow  with 
her  eyes  and  silent  lips,  was  into  an  imaginary  enlargement 
of  the  defense  she  had  set  up  for  her  husband  against  Pris- 
cilla's  implied  blame.  The  vindication  of  the  loved  object  is 
the  best  balm  affection  can  find  for  its  wounds : — "  A  man 
must  have  so  much  on  his  mind,"  is  the  belief  by  which  a 
wife  often  supports  a  cheerful  face  under  rough  answers 
and  unfeeling  words.  And  Nancy's  deepest  wounds 
had  all  come  from  the  perception  that  the  absence  of 
children  from  their  hearth  was  dwelt  on  in  her  husband's 
jnind  as  a  privation  to  which  he  could  not  reconcile  him- 
self. 

Yet  sweet  Nancy  might  have  been  expected  to  feel  still 
more  keenly  the  denial  of  a  blessing  to  which  she  had  looked 
forward  with  all  the  varied  expectations  and  preparations, 
solemn  and  prettily  trivial,  which  fill  the  mind  of  a  loving 
woman  when  she  expects  to  become  a  mother.  Was  there 
not  a  drawer  filled  with  the  neat  work  of  her  hands,  all  un- 
worn and  untouched,  just  as  she  had  arranged  it  there  four- 
teen years  ago — just,  but  for  one  little  dress,  which  had  been 
made  the  burial-dress?  But  under  this  immediate  personal 
trial  Nancy  was  so  firmly  unmurmuring,  that  years  ago  she 
had  suddenly  renounced  the  habit  of  visiting  this  drawer, 


SILAS   MARNER.  473 

lest  she  should  in  this  way  be  cherishing  a  longing  for  what 
was  not  given. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  very  severity  towards  any  indulgence 
of  what  she  held  to  be  sinful  regret  in  herself,  that  made  her 
shrink  from  applying  her  own  standard  to  her  husband.  "  It 
was  very  different — it  was  much  worse  for  a  man  to  be  dis- 
appointed in  that  way  •-  a  woman  could  always  be  satisfied 
with  devoting  herselt  to  her  husband,  but  a  man  wanted 
something  that  would  make  him  look  forward  more — and 
sitting  by  the  fire  was  so  much  duller  to  him  than  to  a  wom- 
an." And  always,  when  Nancy  reached  this  point  in  her 
meditations — trying,  with  predetermined  sympathy,  to  see 
every  thing  as  Godfrey  saw  it — there  came  a  renewal  of  self- 
questioning.  Had  she  done  every  thing  in  her  power  to 
lighten  Godfrey's  privation?  Had  she  really  been  right  in 
the  resistance  which  had  cost  her  so  much  pain  six  years 
ago,  and  again  four  years  ago — the  resistance  to  her  husband's 
wish  that  they  should  adopt  a  child  ?  Adoption  was  more 
remote  from  the  ideas  and  habits  of  that  time  than  of  our 
own  ;  still  Nancy  had  her  opinion  on  it.  It  was  as  necessary 
to  her  mind  to  have  an  opinion  on  all  topics,  not  exclusively 
masculine,  that  had  come  under  her  notice,  as  for  her  to  have 
a  precisely  marked  place  for  every  article  of  her  personal 
property :  and  her  opinions  were  always  principles  to  be  un- 
waveringly acted  on.  They  were  firm,  not  because  of  their 
basis,  but  because  she  held  them  with  a  tenacity  inseparable 
from  her  mental  action.  On  all  the  duties  and  proprieties 
of  life,  from  filial  behavior  to  the  arrangements  of  the  evening 
toilette,  pretty  Nancy  Lammeter,by  the  time  she  was  three- 
and-twenty,  had  her  unalterable  little  code,  and  had  formed 
every  one  of  her  habits  in  strict  accordance  with  that  code. 
She  carried  these  decided  judgments  within  her  in  the  most 
unobtrusive  way :  they  rooted  themselves  in  her  mind,  and 
grew  there  as  quietly  as  grass.  Years  ago,  we  know,  she  in- 
sisted on  dressing  like  Priscilla,  because  "  it  was  right  for 
sisters  to  dress  alike,"  and  because  "  she  would  do  what  was 
right  if  she  wore  a  gown  dyed  with  cheese-coloring."  That 
was  a  trivial  but  typical  instance  of  the  mode  in  which  Nan- 
cy's life  was  regulated. 

It  was  one  of  those  rigid  principles,  and  no  petty  egoistic 
feeling,  which  had  been  the  ground  of  Nancy's  difficult  re- 
sistance to  her  husband's  wish.  To  adopt  a  child,  because 
children  of  your  own  had  been  denied  you,  was  to  try  and 
choose  your  lot  in  spite  of  Providence :  the  adopted  child, 
she  was  convinced,  would  never  turn  out  well,  and  would  be 
a  curse  to  those  who  had  willfully  and  rebelliously  sought 


474  SILAS   MAKNER. 

what  it  was  clear  that,  for  some  high  reason,  they  were  bet- 
ter without.  When  you  saw  a  thing  was  not  meant  to  be. 
said  Nancy,  it  was  a  bounden  duty  to  leave  off  so  much  as 
wishing  for  it.  And  so  far,  perhaps,  the  wisest  of  men  could 
scarcely  make  more  than  a  verbal  improvement  in  her  prin- 
ciple. But  the  conditions  under  which  she  held  it  apparent 
that  a  thing  was  not  meant  to  be,  depended  on  a  more  pe- 
culiar mode  of  thinking.  She  would  have  given  up  making 
a  purchase  at  a  particular  place  if,  on  three  successive  times, 
rain,  or  some  other  cause  of  Heaven's  sending,  had  formed 
an  obstacle ;  and  she  would  have  anticipated  a  broken  limb 
or  other  heavy  misfortune  to  any  one  who  persisted  in  spite 
of  such  indications. 

"  But  why  should  you  think  the  child  would  turn  out  ill  ?" 
said  Godfrey,  in  his  remonstrances.  "  She  has  thriven  as 
well  as  child  can  do  with  the  weaver;  and  he  adopted  her. 
There  isn't  such  a  pretty  little  girl  anywhere  else  in  the  par- 
ish, or  one  fitter  for  the  station  we  could  give  her.  Where 
can  be  the  likelihood  of  her  being  a  curse  to  any  body  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Godfrey,"  said  Nancy,  who  was  sitting 
with  her  hands  tightly  clasped  together,  and  with  yearning, 
regretful  affection  in  her  eyes.  "  The  child  may  not  turn 
out  ill  with  the  weaver.  But,  then,  he  didn't  go  to  seek  her, 
as  we  should  be  doing.  It  will  be  wrong :  I  feel  sure  it  will. 
Don't  you  remember  what  that  lady  we  met  at  the  Royston 
Baths  told  us  about  the  child  her  sister  adopted  ?  That  was 
the  only  adopting  I  ever  heard  of:  and  the  child  was  trans- 
ported when  it  was  twenty-three.  Dear  Godfrey,  don't  ask 
me  to  do  what  I  know  is  wrong :  I  should  never  be  happy 
again.  I  know  it's  very  hard  for  you — it's  easier  for  me — 
but  it's  the  will  of  Providence." 

It  might  seem  singular  that  Nancy — with  her  religious 
theory  pieced  together  out  of  narrow  social  traditions,  frag- 
ments of  church  doctrine  imperfectly  understood,  and  girlish 
reasonings  on  her  small  experience — should  have  arrived  by 
herself  at  a  way  of  thinking  so  nearly  akin  to  that  of  many 
devout  people,  whose  beliefs  are  held  in  the  shape  of  a  sys- 
tem quite  remote  from  her  knowledge — singular,  if  we  did 
not  know  that  human  beliefs,  like  all  other  natural  growths, 
elude  the  barriers  of  system. 

Godfrey  had  from  the  first  specified  Eppie,  then  about 
twelve  years  old,  as  a  child  suitable  for  them  to  adopt.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  that  Silas  would  rather  part  with 
his  life  than  with  Eppie.  Surely  the  weaver  would  wish  the 
best  to  the  child  he  had  taken  so  much  trouble  with,  and  would 
be  glad  that  such  good  fortune  should  happen  to  her :  she 


SILAS   MARKER.  475 

would  always  be  very  grateful  to  him,  and  he  would  be  well 
provided  for  to  the  end  of  his  life — provided  for  as  the  excel- 
lent part  he  had  done  by  the  child  deserved.  Was  it  not 
an  appropriate  thing  for  people  in  a  higher  station  to  take  a 
charge  off  the  hands  of  a  man  in  a  lower  ?  It  seemed  an  em- 
inently appropriate  thing  to  Godfrey,  for  reasons  that  were 
known  only  to  himself;  and,  by  a  common  fallacy,  he  imag- 
ined the  measure  would  be  easy  because  he  had  private  mo- 
tives for  desiring  it.  This  was  rather  a  coarse  mode  of  esti- 
mating Silas's  relation  to  Eppie;  but  we  must  remember 
that  many  of  the  impressions  which  Godfrey  was  likely  to 
gather  concerning  the  laboring  people  around  him  would 
favor  the  idea  that  deep  affections  can  hardly  go  along  with 
callous  palms  and  scant  means ;  and  he  had  not  had  the  op- 
portunity, even  if  he  had  bad  the  power,  of  entering  intimate- 
ly into  all  that  was  exceptional  in  the  weaver's  experience. 
It  was  only  the  want  of  adequate  knowledge  that  could  have 
made  it  possible  for  Godfrey  deliberately  to  entertain  an  un- 
feeling project ;  his  natural  kindness  had  outlived  that  blight- 
ing time  of  cruel  wishes,  and  Nancy's  praise  of  him  as  a  hus- 
band was  not  founded  entirely  on  a  willful  illusion. 

"  I  was  right,"  she  said  to  herself,  when  she  had  recalled 
all  their  scenes  of  discussion — "  I  feel  I  was  right  to  say  him 
nay,  though  it  hurt  me  more  than  any  thing ;  but  how  good 
Godfrey  has  been  about  it?  Many  men  would  have  been 
very  angry  with  me  for  standing  out  against  their  wishes ; 
and  they  might  have  thrown  out  that  they'd  had  ill-luck  in 
marrying  me ;  but  Godfrey  has  never  been  the  man  to  say  me 
an  unkind  word.  It's  only  what  he  can't  hide  ;  every  thing 
seems  so  blank  to  him,  I  know  ;  and  the  land — what  a  differ- 
ence it  'ud  make  to  him,  when  he  goes  to  see  after  things,  if 
he'd  children  growing  up  that  he  was  doing  it  all  for !  But 
I  won't  murmur ;  and  perhaps  if  he'd  married  a  woman  who'd 
have  had  children,  she'd  have  vexed  him  in  other  ways. 

This  possibility  was  Nancy's  chief  comfort ;  and  to  give  it 
greater  strength,  she  labored  to  make  it  impossible  that  any 
other  wife  should  have  had  more  perfect  tenderness.  She 
had  been  forced  to  vex  him  by  that  one  denial.  Godfrey 
was  not  insensible  to  her  loving  effort,  and  did  Nancy  no  in- 
justice as  to  the  motives  of  her  obstinacy.  It  was  impossi-' 
ble  to  have  lived  with  her  fifteen  years  and  not  be  aware 
that  an  unselfish  clinging  to  the  right,  and  a  sincerity  clear 
as  the  flower-born  dew,  were  her  main  characteristics ;  in- 
deed, Godfrey  felt  this  so  strongly,  that  his  own  more  waver- 
ing nature,  too  averse  to  facing  difficulty  to  be  unvaryingly 
simple  and  truthful,  was  kept  in  a  certain  awe  of  this  gentle 


476  SILAS   MARNER. 

wife  who  watched  his  looks  with  a  yearning  to  obey  them. 
It  seemed  to  him  impossible  that  he  should  ever  confess  to 
her  the  truth  about  Eppie :  she  would  never  recover  from 
the  repulsion  the  story  of  his  earlier  marriage  would  create, 
told  to  her  now,  after  that  long  concealment.  And  the  child, 
too,  he  thought,  must  become  an  object  of  repulsion  :  the 
very  sight  of  her  would  be  painfuL  The  shock  to  Nancy's 
mingled  pride  and  ignorance  of  the  world's  evil  might  be 
even  too  much  for  her  delicate  frame.  Since  he  had  married 
her  with  that  secret  on  his  heart,  he  must  keep  it  there  to 
the  last.  Whatever  else  he  did,  he  could  not  make  an  irrep- 
arable breach  between  himself  and  this  long-loved  wife. 

Meanwhile,  why  could  he  not  make  up  his  mind  to  the 
absence  of  children  from  the  hearth  brightened  by  such  a 
wife  ?  Why  did  his  mind  fly  uneasily  to  that  void,  as  if  it 
were  the  sole  reason  why  life  was  not  thoroughly  joyous  to 
him  ?  I  suppose  it  is  the  way  with  all  men  and  women  who 
reach  middle  age  without  the  clear  perception  that  life  never 
can  be  thoroughly  joyous :  under  the  vague  dullness  of  the 
gray  hours,  dissatisfaction  seeks  a  definite  object,  and  finds  it 
in  the  privation  of  an  untried  good.  Dissatisfaction,  seated 
musingly  on  a  childless  hearth,  thinks  with  envy  of  the  father 
whose  return  is  greeted  by  young  voices — seated  at  the  meal 
where  the  little  heads  rise  one  above  the  other  like  nursery 
plants,  it  sees  a  black  care  hovering  behind  every  one  of 
them,  and  thinks  the  impulses  by  which  men  abandon  free- 
dom, and  seek  for  ties,  are  surely  nothing  but  a  brief  mad- 
ness. In  Godfrey's  case  there  were  further  reasons  why  his 
thoughts  should  be  continually  solicited  by  this  one  point  in 
his  lot:  his  conscience,  never  thoroughly  easy  about  Eppie, 
now  gave  his  childless  home  the  aspect  of  a  retribution;  and 
as  the  time  passed  on,  under  Nancy's  refusal  to  adopt  her, 
any  retrieval  of  his  error  became  more  and  more  difficult. 

On  this  Sunday  afternoon  it  was  already  four  years  since 
there  had  been  any  allusion  to  the  subject  between  them,  and 
Nancy  supposed  that  it  was  forever  buried. 

"  I  wonder  if  he'll  mind  it  less  or  more  as  he  gets  older," 
she  thought ;  "  I'm  afraid  more.  Aged  people  feel  the  miss 
of  children  :  what  would  father  do  without  Priscilla  ?  And 
if  I  die,  Godfrey  will  be  very  lonely — not  holding  together 
with  his  brothers  much.  But  I  won't  be  over-anxious,  and 
trying  to  make  things  out  beforehand  :  I  must  do  my  best 
for  the  present." 

With  that  last  thought  Nancy  roused  herself  from  her  rev- 
erie, and  turned  her  eyes  again  towards  the  forsaken  page. 
It  had  been  forsaken  longer  than  she  imagined,  for  she  was 


SILAS   MARKER.  477 

presently  surprised  by  the  appearance  of  the  servant  with  the 
tea-things.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  little  before  the  usual  time  for 
tea ;  but  Jane  had  her  reasons. 

"  Is  your  master  come  into  the  yard,  Jane?" 

"  No  'm,  he  isn't,"  said  Jane,  with  a  slight  emphasis,  of 
which,  however,  her  mistress  took  no  notice. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you've  seen  'em, 'm,"  continued 
Jane,  after  a  pause,  "  but  there's  folks  making  haste  all  one 
way,  afore  the  front  window.  I  doubt  something's  happened. 
There's  niver  a  man  to  be  seen  i'  the  yard,  else  I'd  send  arid 
see.  I've  been  up  into  the  top  attic,  but  there's  no  seeing  any 
thing  for  trees.  I  hope  nobody's  hurt,  that's  all." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  daresay  there's  nothing  much  the  matter,"  said 
Nancy.  "  It's  perhaps  Mr.  Sneil's  bull  got  out  again,  as  he 
did  before." 

'•'  I  wish  he  mayn't  gore  any  body,  then,  that's  all,"  said 
Jane,  not  altogether  despising  an  hypothesis  which  covered  a 
few  imaginary  calamities. 

"  That  girl  is  always  terrifying  me,"  thought  Nancy  ;  "  I 
wish  Godfrey  would  come  in." 

She  went  to  the  front  window  and  looked  as  far  as  she 
could  see  along  the  road,  with  an  uneasiness  which  she  felt 
to  be  childish,  for  there  were  now  no  such  signs  of  excite- 
ment as  Jane  had  spoken  of,  and  Godfrey  would  not  be  likely 
to  return  by  the  village  road,  but  by  the  fields.  She  continued 
to  stand,  however,  looking  at  the  placid  churchyard  with  the 
long  shadows  of  the  gravestones  across  the  bright  green  hil- 
locks, and  at  the  glowing  autumn  colors  of  the  Kectory  trees 
beyond.  Before  such  calm  external  beauty  the  presence  of 
a  vague  fear  is  more  distinctly  felt — like  a  raven  flapping  its 
slow  wing  across  the  sunny  air.  Nancy  wished  more  and 
more  that  Godfrey  would  come  in. 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

SOME  one  opened  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
and  Nancy  felt  that  it  was  her  husband.  She  turned  from 
the  window  with  gladness  in  her  eyes,  for  the  wife's  chief 
dread  was  stilled. 

"  Dear,  I'm  so  thankful  you're  come,"  she  said,  going  to- 
wards him.  "  I  began  to  get — " 

She  paused  abruptly,  for  Godfrey  was  laying  down  his  hat 
with  trembling  hands,  and  turned  towards  her  with  a  pale 


•478  SILAS   MAKNER. 

face  and  a  strange  unanswering  glance,  as  if  he  saw  her  in. 
deed,  but  saw  her  as  part  of  a  scene  invisible  to  herself.  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  not  daring  to  speak  again ;  but  he 
left  the  touch  unnoticed,  and  threw  himself  into  his  chair. 

Jane  was  already  at  the  door  Avith  the  hissing  urn.  "  Tell 
her  to  keep  away,  will  you  ?"  said  Godfrey ;  and  when  the 
door  was  closed  again  he  exerted  himself  to  speak  more  dis- 
tinctly. 

"  Sit  down,  Nancy — there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  chair  op; 
posite  him.  "  I  came  back  as  soon  as  I  could,  to  hinder  any 
body's  telling  you  but  me.  I've  had  a  great  shock — but  I  care 
most  about  the  shock  it'll  be  to  you." 

"  It  isn't  father  and  Priscilla  ?"  said  Nancy,  with  quiver- 
ing lips,  clasping  her  hands  together  tightly  on  her  lap. 

"  No,  it's  nobody  living,"  said  Godfrey,  unequal  to  the  con- 
siderate skill  with  which  he  would  have  wished  to  make  his 
revelation.  "It's  Dunstan — my  brother  Dunstan,  that  we 
lost  sight  of  sixteen  years  ago.  We've  found  him — found  his 
body — his  skeleton." 

The  deep  dread  Godfrey's  look  had  created  in  Nancy  made 
her  feel  these  words  a  relief.  She  sat  in  comparative  calm- 
ness to  hear  what  else  he  had  to  tell.  He  went  on : 

"  The  Stone-pit  has  gone  dry  suddenly — from  the  drain- 
ing, I  suppose  ;  and  there  he  lies — has  lain  for  sixteen  years, 
wedged  between  two  great  stones.  There's  his  watch  and 
seals,  and  there's  my  gold-handled  hunting-whip,  with  my 
name  on :  he  took  it  away,  without  my  knowing,  the  day  he 
went  hunting  on  Wildfire,  the  last  time  he  was  seen." 

Godfrey  paused :  it  was  not  so  easy  to  say  what  came 
next.  "  Do  you  think  he  drowned  himself?"  said  Nancy,  al- 
most wondering  that  her  husband  should  be  so  deeply  shaken 
by  what  had  happened  all  those  years  ago  to  an  unloved 
brother,  of  whom  worse  things  had  been  augured. 

"  No,  he  fell  in,"  said  Godfrey,  in  a  low  but  distinct  voice, 
as  if  he  felt  some  deep  meaning  in  the  fact.  Presently  he 
added :  "  Dunstan  was  the  man  that  robbed  Silas  Marner." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Nancy's  face  and  neck  at  this  surprise 
and  shame,  for  she  had  been  bred  up  to  regard  even  a  distant 
kinship  with  crime  as  a  dishonor. 

"  Oh  Godfrey  !"  she  said,  with  compassion  in  her  tone,  for 
she  had  immediately  reflected  that  the  dishonor  must  be  felt 
still  more  keenly  by  her  husband. 

"  There  was  the  money  in  the  pit,"  he  continued — "  all  the 
weaver's  money.  Every  thing's  been  gathered  up,  and  they're 
taking  the  skeleton  to  the  Rainbow.  But  I  came  back  to  tell 
you  :  there  was  no  hindering  it ;  you  must  know." 


SILAS   MARNEB.  479 

He  was  silent,  looking  on  the  ground  for  two  long  minutes. 
Nancy  would  have  said  some  words  of  comfort  under  this  dis- 
grace, but  she  refrained,  from  an  instinctive  sense  that  there 
was  something  behind — that  Godfrey  had  something  else  to 
tell  her.  Presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face,  and  kept 
them  fixed  on  her,  as  he  said — 

"  Every  thing  comes  to  light,  Nancy,  sooner  or  later.  When 
God  Almighty  wills  it,  our  secrets  are  found  out.  I've  lived 
with  a  secret  on  my  mind,  but  I'll  keep  it  from  you  no  longer. 
I  wouldn't  have  you  know  it  by  some  body  else,  and  not  by  me 
— I  wouldn't  have  you  find  it  out  after  I'm  dead.  I'll  tell  you 
now.  It's  been  '  I  will '  and  '  I  won't '  with  me  all  my  life — 
I'll  make  sure  of  myself  now." 

Nancy's  utmost  dread  had  returned.  The  eyes  of  the  hus- 
band and  wife  met  with  awe  in  them,  as  at  a  crisis  which  sus- 
pended affection. 

"  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey,  slowly, "  when  I  married  you,  I  hid 
something  from  you — something  I  ought  to  have  told  you. 
That  woman  Marner  found  dead  in  the  snow — Eppie's  mother 
— that  wretched  woman — was  my  wife :  Eppie  is  my  child." 

He  paused,  dreading  the  effect  of  his  confession.  But  Nan- 
cy sat  quite  still,  only  that  her  eyes  dropped  and  ceased  to 
meet  his.  She  was  pale  and  quiet  as  a  meditative  statue, 
clasping  her  hands  on  her  lap. 

"  You'll  never  think  the  same  of  me  again,"  said  Godfrey, 
after  a  little  while,  with  some  tremor  in  his  voice. 

She  was  silent. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  left  the  child  unowned :  I  oughtn't  to 
have  kept  it  from  you.  But  I  couldn't  bear  to  give  you  up, 
Nancy.  I  was  led  away  into  marrying  her — I  suffered  for  it." 

Still  Nancy  was  silent,  looking  down ;  and  he  almost  ex- 
pected that  she  would  presently  get  up  and  say  she  would  go 
to  her  father's.  How  could  she  have  any  mercy  for  faults 
that  must  seem  so  black  to  her,  with  her  simple,  severe  no- 
tions ? 

But  at  last  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his  again  and  spoke. 
There  was  no  indignation  in  her  voice — only  deep  regret. 

"  Godfrey,  if  you  had  but  told  me  this  six  years  ago,  we 
could  have  done  some  of  our  duty  by  the  child.  Do  you  think 
I'd  have  refused  to  take  her  in,  if  I'd  known  she  was  yours  ?" 

At  that  moment  Godfrey  felt  all  the  bitterness  of  an  error 
that  was  not  simply  futile,  but  had  defeated  its  own  end.  He 
had  not  measured  this  wife  with  whom  he  had  lived  so  long. 
But  she  spoke  again,  with  more  agitation. 

"  And — Oh,  Godfrey — if  we'd  had  her  from  the  first,  if 
you'd  taken  to  her  as  you  ought,  she'd  have  loved  me  for  her 


480  SILAS   MARXER. 

mother — and  you'd  have  been  happier  with  me :  I  could  better 
have  bore  my  little  baby  dying,  and  our  life  might  have  been 
more  like  what  we  used  to  think  it  'ud  be." 

The  tears  fell,  and  Nancy  ceased  to  speak. 

"  But  you  wouldn't  have  married  me  then,  Nancy,  if  I'd 
told  you,"  said  Godfrey,  urged,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  self- 
reproach,  to  prove  to  himself  that  his  conduct  had  not  been 
utter  folly.  "  You  may  think  you  would  now,  but  you  wouldn't 
then.  With  your  pride  and  your  father's,  you'd  have  hated 
having  any  thing  to  do  with  me  after  the  talk  there'd  have 
been." 

"  I  can't  say  what  I  should  have  done  about  that,  Godfrey. 
I  should  never  have  married  any  body  else.  But  I  wasn't 
worth  doing  wrong  for — nothing  is  in  this  world.  Nothing 
is  so  good  as  it  seems  beforehand — not  even  our  marrying 
wasn't,  you  see."  There  was  a  faint  sad  smile  on  Nancy's 
face  as  she  said  the  last  words. 

"  I'm  a  worse  man  than  you  thought  I  was,  Nancy,"  said 
Godfrey,  rather  tremulously.  "  Can  you  forgive  me  ever  ?" 

"  The  wrong  to  me  is  but  little,  Godfrey :  you've  made  it 
up  to  me — you've  been  good  to  me  for  fifteen  years.  It's  an- 
other you  did  the  wrong  to ;  and  I  doubt  it  can  never  be  all 
made  up  for." 

**  But  we  can  take  Eppie  now,"  said  Godfrey.  "  I  won't 
mind  the  world  knowing  at  last.  I'll  be  plain  and  open  for 
the  rest  o'  my^  life." 

"  It'll  be  different  coming  to  us,  now  she's  grown  up,"  said 
Nancy,  shaking  her  head  sadly.  "  But  it's 'your  duty  to  ac- 
knowledge her  and  provide  for  her;  and  I'll  do  my  part  by 
her,  and  pray  to  God  Almighty  to  make  her  love  me." 

"  Then  we'll  go  together  to  Silas  Marner's  this  very  night, 
as  soon  as  every  thing's  quiet  at  the  Stone-pits," 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BETWEEN  eight  and  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  Eppie  and 
Silas  were  seated  alone  in  the  cottage.  After  the  great  ex- 
citement the  weaver  had  undergone  from  the  events  of  the 
afternoon,  he  had  felt  a  longing  for  this  quietude,  and  had 
even  begged  Mrs.  Winthrop  and  Aaron,  who  had  naturally 
lingered  behind  every  one  else,  to  leave  him  alone  with  his 
child.  The  excitement  had  not  passed  away:  it  had  only 
reached  the  stage  when  the  keenness  of  the  susceptibility 


SILAS    MAKXER.  481 

makes  external  stimulus  intolerable — when  there  is  no  sense 
of  weariness,  but  rather  an  intensity  of  inward  life,  under 
which  sleep  is  an  impossibility.  Any  one  who  has  watched 
such  moments  in  other  men  remembers  the  brightness  of  the 
eyes  and  the  strange  definiteness  that  comes  over  coarse  fea- 
tures from  that  transient  influence.  It  is  as  if  a  new  fineness 
of  ear  for  all  spiritual  voices  had  sent  wonder-working  vibra- 
tions through  the  heavy  mortal  frame — as  if  "  beauty  born 
of  murmuring  sound"  had  passed  into  the  face  of  the  lis- 
tener. 

Silas's  face  showed  that  sort  of  transfiguration,  as  he  sat  in 
his  arm-chair  and  looked  at  Eppie.  She  had  drawn  her  own 
chair  towards  his  knees,  and  leaned  forward,  holding  both  his 
hands,  while  she  looked  up  at  him.  On  the  table  near  them, 
lit  by  a  candle,  lay  the  recovered  gold — the  old  long-loved 
gold,  ranged  in  orderly  heaps,  as  Silas  used  to  range  it  in  the 
days  when  it  was  his  only  joy.  He  had  been  telling  her  how 
he  used  to  count  it  every  night,  and  how  his  soul  was  utterly 
desolate  till  she  was  sent  to  him. 

"At  first,  I'd  a  sort  o'  feeling  come  across  me  now  and 
then,"  he  was  saying  in  a  subdued  tone,  "as  if  you  might  be 
changed  into  the  gold  again ;  for  sometimes,  turn  my  head 
which  way  I  would,  I  seemed  to  see  the  gold ;  and  I  thought 
I  should  be  glad  if  I  could  feel  it,  and  find  it  was  come  back. 
But  that  didn't  last  long.  After  a  bit,  I  should  have  thought 
it  was  a  curse  come  again,  if  it  had  drove  you  from  me,  for  I'd 
got  to  feel  the  need  o'  your  looks  and  your  voice  and  the  touch 
o'  your  little  fingers.  You  didn't  know  then,  Eppie,  when 
you  were  such  a  little  un — you  didn't  know  what  your  old 
father  Silas  felt  for  you." 

"  But  I  know  now,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  you,  they'd  have  taken  me  to  the  workhouse,  and  there'd 
have  been  nobody  to  love  me." 

"Eh,  my  precious  child,  the  blessing  was  mine.  If  you 
hadn't  been  sent  to  save  me,  I  should  ha'  gone  to  the  grave 
in  my  misery.  The  money  was  taken  away  from  me  in  time ; 
and  you  see  it's  been  kept — kept  till  it  was  wanted  for  you. 
It's  wonderful — our  life  is  wonderful." 

Silas  sat  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  the  money. 
"  It  takes  no  hold  of  me  now,"  he  said,  ponderingly — "  the 
money  doesn't.  I  wonder  if  it  ever  could  again — -I  doubt  it 
might,  if  I  lost  you,  Eppie.  I  might  come  to  think  I  was  for- 
saken again,  and  lose  the  feeling  that  God  was  good  to  me." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knocking  at  the  door;  and 
Eppie  was  obliged  to  rise  without  answering  Silas.  Beauti- 
ful she  looked,  with  the  tenderness  of  gathering  tears  in  her 

21 


482  SILAS   MARKER. 

eyes  and  a  slight  flush  on  her  cheeks,  as  she  stepped  to  open 
the  door.  The  flush  deepened  when  she  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Godfrey  Cass.  She  made  her  little  rustic  courtesy,  and  held 
the  door  wide  for  them  to  enter. 

"  We're  disturbing  you  very  late,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Cass, 
taking  Eppic's  hand,  and  looking  in  her  face  with  an  expres- 
sion of  anxious  interest  and  admiration.  Nancy  herself  was 
pale  and  tremulous. 

Eppie,  after  placing  chairs  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass,  went  to 
stand  against  Silas,  opposite  to  them. 

"  Well,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  trying  to  speak  with  per- 
fect firmness,  "  it's  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  see  you  with 
your  money  again,  that  you've  been  deprived  of  so  many 
years.  It  was  one  of  my  family  did  you  the  wrong — the 
more  grief  to  me — and  I  feel  bound  to  make  up  to  you  for  it 
in  every  way.  Whatever  I  can  do  for  you  will  be  nothing 
but  paying  a  debt,  even  if  I  looked  no  farther  than  the  rob- 
bery. But  there  are  other  things  I'm  beholden — shall  be  be- 
holden to  you  for,  Marner." 

Godfrey  checked  himself.  It  had  been  agreed  between 
him  and  his  wife  that  the  subject  of  his  fatherhood  should  be 
approached  very  carefully,  and  that,  if  possible,  the  disclosure 
should  be  reserved  for  the  future,  so  that  it  might  be  made 
to  Eppie  gradually.  .Nancy  had  urged  this, because  she  felt 
strongly  the  painful  light  in  which  Eppie  must  inevitably  see 
the  relation  between  her  father  and  mother. 

Silas,  always  ill  at  ease  when  he  was  being  spoken  to  by 
"  betters,"  8ucn  as  Mr.  Cass — tall,  powerful,  florid  men,  seen 
chiefly  on  horseback — answered  with  some  constraint, 

"  Sir,  I've  a  deal  to  thank  you  for  a' ready.  As  for  the 
robbery,  I  count  it  no  loss  to  me.  And  if  I  did,  you  couldn't 
help  it :  you  aren't  answerable  for  it." 

"  You  may  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Marner,  but  I  never  can : 
and  I  hope  you'll  let  me  act  according  to  my  own  feeling  of 
what's  just.  I  know  you're  easily  contented :  you've  been  a 
hard-working  man  all  your  life." 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes,"  said  Marner,  meditatively.  "  I  should  ha' 
been  bad  off  without  my  work :  it  was  what  I  held  by  when 
every  thing  else  was  gone  from  me." 

"  Ah,"  said  Godfrey,  applying  Marner's  words  simply  to 
his  bodily  wants,  "  it  was  a  good  trade  for  you  in  this  coun- 
try, because  there's  been  a  great  deal  of  linen-weaving  to  be 
done.  But  you're  getting  rather  past  such  close  work,  Mar- 
ner :  it's  time  you  laid  by  and  had  some  rest.  You  look  a 
good  deal  pulled  down,  though  you're  not  an  old  man,  are 
you?" 


SILAS   MAKNER.  483 

"  Fifty-five,  as  near  as  I  can  say,  sir,"  said  Silas. 

"  Oh,  why,  you  may  live  thirty  years  longer — look  at  old 
Macey  !  And  that  money  on  the  table,  after  all,  is  but  little. 
It  won't  go  far  either  way — whether  it's  put  out  to  interest, 
or  you  were  to  live  on  it  as  long  as  it  would  last :  it  wouldn't 
go  far  if  you'd  nobody  to  keep  but  yourself,  and  you've  had 
two  to  keep  for  a  good  many  years  now." 

"  Eh,  sir,"  said  Silas,  unaffected  by  any  thing  Godfrey  was 
saying,  "  I'm  in  no  fear  o'  want.  We  shall  do  very  well — 
Eppie  and  me  'ull  do  well  enough.  There's  few  working- 
folks  have  got  so  much  laid  by  as  that.  I  don't  know  what 
it  is  to  gentlefolks,  but  I  look  upon  it  as  a  deal — almost  too 
much.  And  as  for  us,  it's  little  we  want." 

"  Only  the  garden,  father,"  said  Eppie,  blushing  up  to  the 
ears  the  moment  after. 

"  You  love  a  garden,  do  you  my  dear  ?"  said  Nancy,  think- 
ing that  this  turn  in  the  point  of  view  might  help  her  hus- 
band. "  We  should  agree  in  that :  I  give  a  deal  of  time  to 
the  garden." 

"Ah,  there's  plenty  of  gardening  at  the  Red  House,"  said 
Godfrey,  surprised  at  the  difficulty  he  found  in  approaching 
a  proposition  which  had  seemed  so  easy  to  him  in  the  dis- 
tance. "  You've  done  a  good  part  by  Eppie,  Marner,  for  six- 
teen years.  It  'ud  be  a  great  comfort  to  you  to  see  her  well 
provided  for,  wouldn't  it  ?  She  looks  blooming  and  healthy, 
but  not  fit  for  any  hardships :  she  doesn't  look  like  a  strap- 
ping girl  come  of  working  parents.  You'd  like  to  see  her 
taken  care  of  by  those  who  can  leave  her  well  off,  and  make 
a  lady  of  her ;  she's  more  fit  for  it  than  for  a  rough  life,  such 
as  she  might  come  to  have  in  a  few  years'  time." 

A  slight  flush  came  over  Mamer's  face,  and  disappeared, 
like  a  passing  gleam.  Eppie  was  simply  wondering  Mr. 
Cass  should  talk  so  about  things  that  seemed  to  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  reality ;  but  Silas  was  hurt  and  uneasy. 

"  I  don't  take  your  meaning,  sir,"  he  answered,  not  having 
words  at  command  to  express  the  mingled  feelings  with 
which  he  had  heard  Mr.  Cass's  words. 

"  Well,  my  meaning  is  this,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  deter- 
mined to  come  to  the  point.  "Mrs.  Cass  and  I,  you  know, 
have  no  children — nobody  to  benefit  by  our  good  home  and 
every  thing  else  we  have — more  than  enough  for  ourselves. 
And  we  should  like  to  have  somebody  in  the  place  of  a 
daughter  to  us — we  should  like  to  have  Eppie,  and  treat  her 
in  every  way  as  our  own  child.  It  would  be  a  great  com- 
fort to  you  in  your  old  age,  I  hope,  to  see  her  fortune  made 
in  that  way,  after  you  have  been  at  the  trouble  of  bringing 


484  SILAS   MARNER. 

her  up  so  well.  And  it's  right  you  should  have  every  re- 
ward for  that.  And  Eppie,  I'm  sure,  will  always  love  you 
and  be  grateful  to  you :  she'd  come  and  see  you  very  often, 
and  we  should  all  be  on  the  look-out  to  do  every  thing  we 
could  towards  making  you  comfortable." 

A  plain  man  like  Godfrey  Cass,  speaking  under  some  em- 
barrassment, necessarily  blunders  on  words  that  are  coarser 
than  his  intentions,  and  that  are  likely  to  fall  gratingly  on 
susceptible  feelings.  While  he  had  been  speaking,  Eppie 
had  quietly  passed  her  arm  behind  Silas's  head,  and  let  her 
hand  rest  against  it  caressingly ;  she  felt  him  trembling 
violently.  He  was  silent  for  some  moments  when  Mr.  Cass 
had  ended — powerless  under  the  conflict  of  emotions,  all  alike 
painful.  Eppie's  heart  was  swelling  at  the  sense  that  her 
father  was  in  distress;  and  she  was  just  going  to  lean  down 
and  speak  to  him,  when  one  struggling  dread  at  last  gained 
the  mastery  over  every  other  in  Silas,  and  he  said,  faintly — 

"Eppie,  my  child,  speak.  I  won't  stand  in  your  way. 
Thank  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass." 

Eppie  took  her  hand  from  her  father's  head,  and  came  for- 
ward a  step.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  bat  not  with  shyness 
this  time :  the  sense  that  her  father  was  in  doubt  and  suffer- 
ing banished  that  sort  of  self-consciousness.  She  dropped  a 
low  courtesy,  first  to  Mrs.  Cass  and  then  to  Mr.  Cass,  and 
said — 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am — thank  you,  sir.  But  I  can't  leave 
my  father,  nor  own  any  body  nearer  than  him.  And  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  lady — thank  you  all  the  same"  (here  Eppie 
dropped  another  courtesy).  "I  couldn't  give  up  the  folks 
IVe  been  used  to." 

Eppie's  lip  began  to  tremble  a  little  at  the  last  words. 
She  retreated  to  her  father's  chair  again,  and  held  him  round 
the  neck :  while  Silas,  with  a  subdued  sob,  put  up  his  hand 
to  grasp  hers. 

The  tears  were  in  Nancy's  eyes,  but  her  sympathy  with 
Eppie  was,  naturally,  divided  with  distress  on  her  husband's 
account.  She  dared  not  speak,  wondering  what  was  going 
on  in  her  husband's  mind. 

Godfrey  felt  an  irritation  inevitable  to  almost  all  of  us 
when  we  encounter  an  unexpected  obstacle.  He  had  been 
full  of  his  own  penitence  and  resolution  to  retrieve  his  error 
as  far  as  the  time  was  left  to  him  ;  he  was  possessed  with  all- 
important  feelings,  that  were  to  lead  to  a  predetermined 
course  of  action  which  he  had  fixed  on  as  the  right,  and  he 
was  not  prepared  to  enter  with  lively  appreciation  into  other 
people's  feelings  counteracting  his  virtuous  resolves.  The 


"  She  retreated  to  her  fabler's  chair  again,  and  held  him  round  the  neck."— 
PACE  484. 


486  SILAS    MARNEK. 

agitation  with  which  he  spoke  again  was  not  quite  unmixed 
with  anger. 

"  But  I  have  a  claim  on  you,  Eppie — the  strongest  of  all 
claims.  It  is  my  duty,  Marner,  to  own  Eppie  as  my  child, 
and  provide  for  her.  She  is  my  own  child — her  mother  was 
my  wife.  I  have  a  natural  claim  on  her  that  must  stand  be- 
fore every  other." 

Eppie  had  given  i  violent  start,  and  turned  quite  pale. 
Silas,  on  the  contrary,  who  had  been  relieved,  by  Eppie's  an- 
swer, from  the  dread  lest  his  mind  should  be  in  opposition  to 
hers,  felt  the  spirit  of  resistance  in  him  set  free,  not  without 
a  touch  of  parental  fierceness.  "  Then,  sir,"  he  answered, 
with  an  accent  of  bitterness  that  had  been  silent  in  him  since 
the  memorable  day  when  his  youthful  hope  had  perished — 
"  then,  sir,  why  didn't  you  say  so  sixteen  year  ago,  and  claim 
her  before  I'd  come  to  love  her,  i'stead  o'  coming  to  take  her 
from  me  now,  when  you  might  as  well  take  the  heart  out  o' 
my  body?  God  gave  her  to  me  because  you  turned  your 
back  upon  her,  and  He  looks  upon  her  as  mine :  you've  no 
right  to  her !  When  a  man  turns  a  blessing  from  his  door 
it  falls  to  them  as  take  it  in." 

"  I  know  that,  Marner.  I  was  wrong.  I've  repented  of 
my  conduct  in  that  matter,"  said  Godfrey,  Avho  could  not 
help  feeling  the  edge  of  Silas's  words. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  sir,"  said  Mamer,  with  gathering  ex- 
citement ;  "  but  repentance  doesn't  alter  what's  been  going 
on  for  sixteen  year.  Your  coming  now  and  saying  '  I'm 
her  father'  doesn't  alter  the  feelings  inside  us.  It's  me 
she's  been  calling  her  father  ever  since  she  could  say  the 
word." 

"  But  I  think  you  might  look  at  the  thing  more  reasonably, 
Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  unexpectedly  awed  by  the  weaver's 
direct  truth-speaking.  "  It  isn't  as  if  she  was  to  be  taken 
quite  away  from  you,  so  that  you'd  never  see  her  again. 
She'll  be  very  near  you,  and  come  to  see  you  very  often. 
See'll  feel  just  the  same  towards  you." 

"  Just  the  same  ?"  said  Marner,  more  bitterly  than  ever. 
"  How'll  she  feel  just  the  same  for  me  as  she  does  now,  when 
we  eat  o'  the  same  bit,  and  drink  o'  the  same  cup,  and  think 
o'  the  same  things  from  one  day's  end  to  another  ?  Just  the 
same  ?  that's  idle  talk.  You'd  cut  us  i'  two." 

Godfrey,  unqualified  by  experience  to  discern  the  preg- 
nancy of  Marner' s  simple  words,  felt  rather  angry  again.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  weaver  was  very  selfish  (a  judgment 
readily  passed  by  those  who  have  never  tested  their  own 
power  of  sacrifice)  to  oppose  what  was  undoubtedly  for  Ep- 


SILAS  MARNER.  487 

pie's  welfare;  and  he  felt  himself  called  upon,  for  her  sake, 
to  assert  his  authority. 

"  I  should  have  thought,  Marner,"  he  said,  severely — "  I 
should  have  thought  your  affection  for  Eppie  would  have 
made  you  rejoice  in  what  was  for  her  good,  even  if  it  did  call 
upon  you  to  give  up  something.  You  ought  to  remember 
that  your  own  life  is  uncertain,  and  that  she's  at  an  age  now 
when  her  lot  may  soon  be  fixed  in  a  way  very  different  from 
what  it  would  be  in  her  father's  home :  she  may  marry  some 
low  working-man,  and  then,  whatever  I  might  do  for  her,  I 
couldn't  make  her  well-off.  You're  putting  yourself  in  the 
way  of  her  welfare ;  and  though  I'm  sorry  to  hurt  you  after 
what  you've  done,  and  what  I've  left  undone,  I  feel  now  it's 
my  duty  to  insist  on  taking  care  of  my  own  daughter.  I 
want  to  do  my  duty." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  it  were  Silas  or  Eppie 
that  was  most  deeply  stirred  by  this  last  speech  of  Godfrey's. 
Thought  had  been  very  busy  in  Eppie  as  she  listened  to  the 
contest  between  her  old  long-loved  father  and  this  new  un- 
familiar father  who  had  suddenly  come  to  fill  the  place  of 
that  black  featureless  shadow  which  had  held  the  ring  and 
placed  it  on  her  mother's  finger.  Her  imagination  had  dart- 
ed backward  in  conjectures,  and  forward  in  previsions,  of 
what  this  revealed  fatherhood  implied :  and  there  were  words 
in  'Godfrey's  last  speech  which  helped  to  make  the  previsions 
especially  definite.  Not  that  these  thoughts,  either  of  past 
or  future,  determined  her  resolution — that  was  determined 
by  the  feelings  which  vibrated  to  every  word  Silas  had  ut- 
tered ;  but  they  raised,  even  apart  from  these  feelings,  a  re- 
pulsion towards  the  offered  lot  and  the  newly-revealed  father. 

Silas,  on  the  other  hand,  was  again  stricken  in  conscience, 
and  alarmed  lest  Godfrey's  accusation  should  be  true — lest  he 
should  be  raising  his  own  will  as  an  obstacle  to  Eppie's  good. 
For  many  moments  he  was  mute,  struggling  for  the  self-con- 
quest necessary  to  the  uttering  of  the  difficult  words.  They 
came  out  tremulously. 

"  I'll  say  no  more.  Let  it  be  as  you  will.  Speak  to  the 
child.  I'll  hinder  nothing." 

Even  Nancy,  with  all  the  acute  sensibility  of  her  own  af- 
fections, shared  her  husband's  view,  that  Marner  was  not  jus- 
tifiable in  his  wish  to  retain  Eppie,  after  her  real  father  had 
avowed  himself.  She  felt  that  it  was  a  very  hard  trial  for 
the  poor  weaver,  but  her  code  allowed  no  question  that  a 
father  by  blood  must  have  a  claim  above  that  of  any  foster- 
father.  Besides,  Nancy,  used  all  her  life  to  plenteous  circum- 
stances and  the  privileges  of  "  respectability,"  could  not  en- 


488  SILAS    MARNER. 

ter  into  the  pleasures  which  early  nurture  and  habit  connect 
with  all  the  little  aims  and  efforts  of  the  poor  who  are  born 
poor :  to  her  mind,  Eppie,  in  being  restored  to  her  birthright, 
was  entering  on  a  too-long  withheld  but  unquestionable 
good.  Hence  she  heard  Silas's  last  words  with  relief,  and 
thought,  as  Godfrey  did,  that  their  wish  was  achieved. 

"  Eppie,  my  dear,"  said  Godfrey,  looking  at  his  daughter, 
not  without  some  embarrassment,  under  the  sense  that  she 
was  old  enough  to  judge  him, "  it'll  always  be  our  wish  that 
you  should  show  your  love  and  gratitude  to  one  who  has 
been  a  father  to  you  so  many  years,  and  we  shall  want  to  help 
you  to  make  him  comfortable  in  every  way.  But  we  hope 
you'll  come  to  love  us  as  well;  and  though  I  haven't  been 
what  a  father  should  have  been  to  you  all  these  years,  I  wish 
to  do  the  utmost  in  my  power  for  you  for  the  rest  of  my  life, 
and  provide  for  you  as  my  only  child.  And  you'll  have  the 
best  of  mothers  in  my  wife — that'll  be  a  blessing  you  haven't 
known  since  you  were  old  enough  to  know  it." 

"  My  dear,  you'll  be  a  treasure  to  me,"  said  Nancy,  in  her 
gentle  voice.  "  We  shall  want  for  nothing  when  we  have 
our  daughter." 

Eppie  did  not  come  foi*ward  and  courtesy,  as  she  had  done 
before.  She  held  Silas's  hand  in  hers,  and  grasped  it  firmly 
— it  was  a  weaver's  hand,  with  a  palm  and  finger-tips  that 
were  sensitive  to  such  pressure — while  she  spoke  with  colder 
decision  than  before. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am — thank  you,  sir,  for  your  offers — 
they're  very  great,  and  far  above  my  wish.  For  I  should 
have  no  delight  i'  life  any  more  if  I  was  forced  to  go  away 
from  my  father,  and  knew  he  was  sitting  at  home  a-thinking 
of  me  and  feeling  lone.  We've  been  used  to  be  happy  to- 
gether every  day,  and  I  can't  think  o'  no  happiness  without 
him.  And  he  says  he'd  nobody  i'  the  world  till  I  was  sent  to 
him,  and  he'd  have  nothing  when  I  was  gone.  And  he's  took 
care  of  me  and  loved  me  from  the  first,  and  I'll  cleave  to  him 
as  long  as  he  lives,  and  nobody  shall  ever  come  between  him 
and  me." 

"  But  you  must  make  sure,  Eppie,"  said  Silas,  in  a  low 
voice — "  you  must  make  sure  as  you  won't  ever  be  sorry,  be- 
cause you've  made  your  choice  to  stay  among  poor  folks,  and 
with  poor  clothes  and  things,  when  you  might  ha'  had  every 
thing  o'  the  best." 

His  sensitiveness  on  this  point  had  increased  as  he  listened 
to  Eppie's  words  of  faithful  affection. 

"  I  can  never  be  sorry,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "  I  shouldn't 
know  what  to  think  on  or  to  wish  for  with  fine  things  about 


SILAS    MARNER.  489 

me,  as  I  haven't  been  used  to.  And  it  'ud  be  poor  work  for 
me  to  put  on  things,  and  ride  in  a  gig,  and  sit  in  a  place  at 
church,  as  'ud  make  them  as  I'm  fond  of  think  me  unfitting 
company  for  'em.  What  could  ./"care  for  then  ?" 

Nancy  looked  at  Godfrey  with  a  pained  questioning 
glance.  But  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor,  where  he  was 
moving  the  end  of  his  stick,  as  if  he  were  pondering  on  some- 
thing absently.  She  thought  there  was  a  word  which  might 
perhaps  come  better  from  her  lips  then  from  his. 

"  What  you  say  is  natural,  my  dear  child — it's  natural  you 
should  cling  to  those  who've  brought  you  up,"  she  said  mild- 
ly ;  "but  there's  a  duty  you  owe  to  your  lawful  father. 
There's  perhaps  something  to  be  given  up  on  more  sides  than 
one.  When  your  father  opens  his  home  to  you,  I  think  it's 
right  you  shouldn't  turn  your  back  on  it." 

"I  can't  feel  as  I've  got  any  father  but  one,"  said  Eppie, 
impetuously,  while  the  tears  gathered.  "  I've  always  thought 
of  a  little  home  where  he'd  sit  i'  the  corner,  and  I  should  fend 
and  do  every  thing  for  him :  I  can't  think  o'  no  other  home. 
I  wasn't  brought  up  to  be  a  lady,  and  I  can't  turn  my  mind 
to  it.  I  like  the  working-folks,  and  their  victuals,  and  their 
ways.  And,"  she  ended  passionately,  while  the  tears  fell, 
"  I'm  promised  to  marry  a  working-man,  as  '11  live  with  fa- 
ther, and  help  me  to  take  care  of  him." 

Godfrey  looked  up  at  Nancy  with  a  flushed  face  and  a 
smarting  dilation  of  the  eyes.  This  frustration  of  a  purpose 
towards  which  he  had  set  out  under  the  exalted  conscious- 
ness that  he  Avas  about  to  compensate  in  some  degree  for  the 
greatest  demerit  of  his  life,  made  him  feel  the  air  of  the  room 
stifling. 

"  Let  us  go,"  he  said,  in  an  under-tone. 

"  We  won't  talk  of  this  any  longer  now,"  said  Nancy,  ris- 
ing. "  We're  your  well-wishers,  my  dear — and  yours  too, 
Marner.  We  shall  come  and  see  you  again.  It's  getting 
late  now." 

In  this  way  she  covered  her  husband's  abrupt  departure, 
for  Godfrey  had  gone  straight  to  the  door,  unable  to  say 
more. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

NANCY  and  Godfrey  walked  home  under  the  starlight  in 
silence.  When  they  entered  the  oaken  parlor,  Godfrey  threw 
himself  into  his  chair,  while  Nancy  laid  down  her  bonnet  and 

21* 


490  SILAS    MARNER. 

shawl,  and  stood  on  the  hearth  near  her  husband,  unwilling 
to  leave  him  even  for  a  few  minutes,  and  yet  fearing  to  utter 
any  word  lest  it  might  jar  on  his  feeling.  At  last  Godfrey 
turned  his  head  towards  her,  and  their  eyes  met,  dwelling  in 
that  meeting  without  any  movement  on  either  side.  That 
quiet  mutual  gaze  of  a  trusting  husband  and  wife  is  like  the 
first  moment  of  rest  or  refuge  from  a  great  weariness  or  a 
great  danger — not  to  be  interfered  with  by  speech  or  action 
which  would  distract  the  sensations  from  the  fresh  enjoy- 
ment of  repose. 

But  presently  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  as  Nancy  placed 
hers  within  it,  he  drew  her  towards  him,  and  said, 

"That's  ended!" 

She  bent  to  kiss  him,  and  then  said,  as  she  stood  by  his 
side,  "Yes,  I'm  afraid  we  must  give  up  the  hope  of  having 
her  for  a  daughter.  It  wouldn't  be  right  to  want  to  force 
her  to  come  to  us  against  her  will.  We  can't  alter  her  bring- 
ing up  and  what's  come  of  it." 

"  No,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  keen  decisiveness  of  tone,  in 
contrast  with  his  usually  careless  and  unemphatic  speech — 
*'  there's  debts  we  can't  pay  like  money  debts,  by  paying  ex- 
1  ra  for  the  years  that  have  slipped  by.  While  I've  been  put- 
fing  off  and  putting  off,  the  trees  have  been  growing — it's 
I  oo  late  now.  Marner  was  in  the  right  in  what  he  said  about. 
f»  man's  turning  away  a  blessing  from  his  door:  it  falls  to 
somebody  else.  I  wanted  to  pass  for  childless  once,  Nancy 
•  -I  shall  pass  for  childless  now  against  my  wish." 

Nancy  did  not  speak  immediately,  but  after  a  little  while 
»he  asked — "You  won't  make  it  known,  then,  about  Eppie's 
Vicing  your  daughter?" 

"  No — where  would  be  the  good  to  any  body  ?  only  harm. 
I  must  do  what  I  can  for  her  in  the  state  of  life  she  chooses. 
I  must  see  who  it  is  she's  thinking  of'marrying." 

"  If  it  won't  do  any  good  to  make  the  thing  known,"  said 
Nancy,  who  thought  she  might  now  allow  herself  the  relief 
of  entertaining  a  feeling  which  she  had  tried  to  silence  be* 
fore,  "  I  should  be  very  thankful  for  father  and  Priscilla 
never  to  be  troubled  with  knowing  what  was  done  in  the 
past,  more  than  about  Dunsey :  it  can't  be  helped,  their 
knowing  that." 

"I  shall  put  it  in  my  will — I  think  I  shall  put  it  in  my 
•will.  I  shouldn't  like  to  leave  any  thing  to  be  found  out, 
like  this  of  Dunsey,"  said  Godfrey,  meditatively.  "  But  I 
can't  see  any  thing  but  difficulties  that  'ud  come  from  telling 
it  now.  I  must  do  what  I  can  to  make  her  happy  in  her 
own  way.  I've  a  notion,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause, 


SILAS   MABNEB.  491 

"  it's  Aaron  Winthrop  she  meant  she  was  engaged  to.  I  re- 
member seeing  him  with  her  and  Marner  going  away  from 
church." 

"  Well,  he's  very  sober  and  industrious,"  said  Nancy,  try- 
ing to  view  the  matter  as  cheerfully  as  possible. 

Godfrey  fell  into  thoughtfulness  again.  Presently  he 
looked  up  at  Nancy  sorrowfully,  and  said, 

"  She's  a  very  pretty,  nice  girl,  isn't  she,  Nancy  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear ;  and  with  just  your  hair  and  eyes:  I  wonder- 
ed it  had  never  struck  me  before." 

"  I  think  she  took  a  dislike  to  me  at  the  thought  of  my 
being  her  father :  I  could  see  a  change  in  her  manner  after 
that.'" 

"  She  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  not  looking  on  Marner  as 
her  father,"  said  Nancy,  not  wishing  to  confirm  her  hus- 
band's painful  impression. 

"  She  thinks  I  did  wrong  by  her  mother  as  well  as  by  her. 
She  thinks  me  worse  than  I  am.  But  she  must  think  it :  she 
can  never  know  all.  It's  part  of  my  punishment,  Nancy,  for 
my  daughter  to  dislike  me.  I  should  never  have  got  into 
that  trouble  if  I'd  been  true  to  you — if  I  hadn't  been  a  fool. 
I'd  no  right  to  expect  any  thing  but  evil  could  come  of  that 
marriage — and  when  I  shirked  doing  a  father's  part,  too." 

Nancy  was  silent ;  her  spirit  of  rectitude  would  not  let 
her  try  to  soften  the  edge  of  what  she  felt  to  be  a  just  com- 
punction. He  spoke  again  after  a  little  while,  but  the  tone 
was  rather  changed  :  there  was  tenderness  mingled  with  the 
previous  self-reproach. 

"  And  I  got  yaw,  Nancy,  in  spite  of  all ;  and  yet  I've  been 
grumbling  and  uneasy  because  I  hadn't  something  else — as 
if  I  deserved  it." 

"  You've  never  been  wanting  to  me,  Godfrey,"  said  Nancy, 
with  quiet  sincerity.  "My  only  trouble  would  be  gone  if 
you  resigned  yourself  to  the  lot  that's  been  given  us." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  isn't  too  late  to  mend  a  bit  there.  Though 
it  is  too  late  to  mend  some  things,  say  what  they  will." 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  next  morning,  when  Silas  and  Eppie  were  seated  at 
their  breakfast,  he  said  to  her, 

"  Eppie,  there's  a  thing  I've  had  on  my  mind  to  do  this 
two  year,  and  now  the  money's  been  brought  back  to  us,  we 


492  SILAS   MARNER. 

can  do  it.  I've  been  turning  it  over  and  ovei  in  the  night, 
and  I  think  we'll  set  out  to-morrow,  while  the  fine  days  last. 
We'll  leave  the  house  and  every  thing  for  your  godmother  to 
take  care  on,  and  we'll  make  a  little  bundle  o'  things  and  set 
out." 

"  Where  to  go,  daddy  ?"  said  Eppie,  in  much  surprise. 

"To  my  old  country — to  the  toAvn  where  I  was  born — up 
Lantern  Yard.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Paston,  the  minister: 
something  may  ha'  come  out  to  make  'em  know  I  was  inni- 
cent  o'  the  robbery.  And  Mr.  Paston  was  a  man  with  a  deal 
o'  light — I  want  to  speak  to  him  about  the  drawing  o'  the 
lots.  And  I  should  like  to  talk  to  him  about  the  religion 
o'  this  country-side,  for  I  partly  think  he  doesn't  know  on 
it." 

Eppie  was  very  joyful,  for  there  was  the  prospect  not  only 
of  wonder  and  delight  at  seeing  a  strange  country,  but  also 
of  coming  back  to  tell  Aaron  all  about  it.  Aaron  was  so  much 
wiser  than  she  was  about  most  things — it  would  be  rather 
pleasant  to  have  this  little  advantage  over  him.  Mrs.  Win- 
throp,  though  possessed  with  a  dim  fear  of  dangers  attend- 
ant on  so  long  a  journey,  and  requiring  many  assurances  that 
it  would  not  take  them  out  of  the  region  of  carriers'  carts  and 
slow  wagons,  was  nevertheless  well  pleased  that  Silas  should 
revisit  his  own  country,  and  find  out  if  he  had  been  cleared 
from  that  false  accusation. 

"  You'd  be  easier  in  your  mind  for  the  rest  o'  your  life, 
Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly — "  that  you  would.  And  if  there's 
any  light  to  be  got  up  the  yard  as  you  talk  on,  we've  need 
of  it  i'  this  world,  and  I'd  be  glad  on  it  myself,  if  you  could 
bring  it  back." 

So  on  the  fourth  day  from  that  time,  Silas  and  Eppie,  in 
their  Sunday  clothes,  with  a  small  bundle  tied  in  a  blue  linen 
handkerchief,  were  making  their  way  through  the  streets  of  a 
great  manufacturing  town.  Silas,  bewildered  by  the  changes 
thirty  years  had  brought  over  his  native  place,  had  stopped 
several  persons  in  succession  to  ask  them  the  name  of  this 
town,  that  he  might  be  sure  he  was  not  under  a  mistake 
about  it. 

"  Ask  for  Lantern  Yard,  father — ask  this  gentleman  with 
the  tassels  on  his  shoulders  a-standing  at  the  shop  door ;  he 
isn't  in  a  hurry  like  the  rest,"  said  Eppie,  in  some  distress  at 
her  father's  bewilderment,  and  ill  at  ease,  besides,  amidst  the 
noise,  the  movement,  and  the  multitude  of  strange  indifferent 
faces. 

"  Eh,  my  child,  he  won't  know  any  thing  about  it,"  said 
Silas ;  "  gentlefolks  didn't  ever  go  up  the  Yard.  But  happen 


SILAS   MARNER.  493 

somebody  can  tell  me  which  is  the  way  to  Prison  Street, 
where  the  jail  is.  I  know  the  way  out  o'  that  as  if  I'd  seen 
it  yesterday." 

With  some  difficulty,  after  many  turnings  and  new  inqui- 
ries, they  reached  Prison  Street ;  and  the  gi-im  walls  of  the  jail, 
the  first  object  that  answered  to  any  image  in  Silas's  memo- 
ry, cheered  him  with  the  certitude,  which  no  assurance  of  the 
town's  name  had  hitherto  given  him,  that  he  was  in  his  native 
place. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  drawing  a  long  breath, "  there's  the  jail,  Ep- 
pie ;  that's  just  the  same :  I  aren't  afraid  now.  It's  the  third 
turning  on  the  left  hand  from  the  jail  doors,  that's  the  way 
we  must  go." 

"  Oh,  what  a  dark,  ugly  place  !"  said  Eppie.  "  How  it 
hides  the  sky  !  It's  worse  than  the  Workhouse.  I'm  glad 
you  don't  live  in  this  town  now,  father.  Is  Lantern  Yard  like 
this  street  ?" 

"  My  precious  child,"  said  Silas,  smiling,  "  it  isn't  a  big 
street  like  this.  I  never  was  easy  i'  this  street  myself,  but  I 
was  fond  o'  Lantern  Yard.  The  shops  here  are  all  altered,  I 
think — I  can't  make  'em  out ;  but  I  shall  know  the  turning, 
because  it's  the  third. 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  as  they  came 
to  a  narrow  alley.  "  And  then  we  must  go  to  the  left  again, 
and  then  straight  fcr'ard  for  a  bit,  up  Shoe  Lane :  and  then 
we  shall  be  at  the  entry  next  to  the  o'erhanging  window, 
where  there's  the  nick  in  the  road  for  the  water  to  run.  Eh, 
I  can  see  it  all." 

"  Oh,  father,  I'm  like  as  if  I  was  stifled,"  said  Eppie.  "  I 
couldn't  ha'  thought  as  any  folks  lived  i'  this  way,  so  close 
together.  How  pretty  the  Stone-pits  'ull  look  when  we  get 
back !" 

"  It  looks  comical  to  me,  child,  now — and  smells  bad.  I 
can't  think  as  it  usened  to  smell  so." 

Here  and  there  a  sallow,  begrimed  face  looked  out  from  a 
gloomy  doorway  at  the  strangers,  and  increased  Eppie's  un- 
easiness, so  that  it  was  a  longed-for  relief  when  they  issued 
from  the  alleys  into  Shoe  Lane,  where  there  was  a  broader 
strip  of  sky. 

"  Dear  heart !"  said  Silas, "  why,  there's  people  coming  out 
o'  the  Yard  as  if  they'd  been  to  chapel  at  this  time  o'  day — 
a  weekday  noon !" 

Suddenly  he  started  and  stood  still  with  a  look  of  distress- 
ed amazement,  that  alarmed  Eppie.  They  were  before  an 
opening  in  front  of  a  large  factory,  from  which  men  and  wom- 
en were  streaming  for  their  mid-day  meal. 


494  SILAS   MARNEB. 

"  Father,"  said  Eppie,  clasping  his  arm,  "  what's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

But  she  had  to  speak  again  and  again  before  Silas  could 
answer  her. 

"  It's  gone,  child,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  strong  agitation, — 
"  Lantern  Yard's  gone.  It  must  ha'  been  here,  because  here's 
the  house  with  the  o'erhanging  window — I  know  that — it's 
just  the  same ;  but  they've  made  this  new  opening ;  and  see 
that  big  factory  !  It's  all  gone — chapel  and  all." 

"  Come  into  that  little  brush-shop  and  sit  down,  father — 
they'll  let  you  sit  down,"  said  Eppie,  always  on  the  watch 
lest  one  of  her  father's  strange  attacks  should  come  on.  "  Per- 
haps the  people  can  tell  you  all  about  it." 

But  neither  from  the  brush-maker,  who  had  come  to  Shoe 
Lane  only  ten  years  ago,  when  the  factory  was  already  built, 
nor  from  any  other  source  within  his  reach,  could  Silas  learn 
any  thing  of  the  old  Lantern  Yard  friends,  or  of  Mr.  Fasten, 
the  minister. 

"  The  old  place  is  all  swep'  away,"  Silas  said  to  Dolly 
Winthrop  on  the  night  of  his  return — "  the  little  graveyard 
and  every  thing.  The  old  home's  gone ;  I've  no  home  but 
this  now.  I  shall  never  know  whether  they  got  at  the  truth 
o'  the  robbery,  nor  whether  Mr.  Paston  could  ha'  given  me 
any  light  about  the  drawing  o'  the  lots.  It's  dark  to  me, 
Mrs.  Winthrop,  that  is ;  I  doubt  it'll  be  dark  to  the  last." 

"  Well,  yes,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  who  sat  with  a 
placid  listening  face,  now  bordered  by  gray  hairs  ;  "  I  doubt 
it  may.  It's  the  will  o'  Them  above  as  a  many  things  should 
be  dark  to  us ;  but  there's  some  things  as  I've  never  felt  i' 
the  dark  about,  and  they're  mostly  what  comes  i'  the  day's 
work.  You  were  hard  done  by  that  once,  Master  Marner, 
and  it  seems  as  you'll  never  know  the  rights  of  it ;  but  that 
doesn't  hinder  there  being  a  rights,  Master  Marner,  for  all  it's 
dark  to  you  and  me." 

"  No,"  said  Silas,  "  no  :  that  doesn't  hinder.  Since  the 
time  the  child  was  sent  to  me,  and  I've  come  to  love  her  as 
myself,  I've  had  light  enough  to  trusten  by ;  and  now  she 
she'll  never  leave  me,  I  think  I  shall  trusten  till  I  die." 


SILAS    .MAKNKU.  493 


CONCLUSION. 

was  one  time  of  the  year  which  was  held  in  Rave« 
loo  to  be  especially  suitable  for  a  wedding.  It  was  when 
the  great  lilacs  and  laburnums  in  the  old-fashioned  gardens 
showed  thcii1  golden  and  purple  wealth  above  the  lichen-tint- 
ed walls,  and  when  there  were  calves  still  young  enough  to 
want  bucketfuls  of  fragrant  milk.  People  were  not  so  busy 
then  as  they  must  become  when  the  full  cheese-making  and 
the  mowing  had  set  in  ;  and  besides,  it  was  a  time  when  a 
lio-ht  bridal  dress  could  be  worn  with  comfort  and  seen  to 

O 

advantage. 

Happily  the  sunshine  fell  more  warmly  than  usual  on  the 
lilac  tufts  the  morning  that  Eppie  was  married,  for  her  dress 
was  a  very  light  one.  She  had  often  thought,  though  with 
a  feeling  of  renunciation,  that  the  perfection  of  a  wedding- 
dress  would  be  a  white  cotton,  with  the  tiniest  pink  sprig  at 
wide  intervals ;  so  that  when  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  begged  to 
provide  one,  and  asked  Eppie  to  choose  what  it  should  be, 
previous  meditation  had  enabled  her  to  give  a  decided  an- 
swer at  once. 

Seen  at  a  little  distance  as  she  walked  across  the  church- 
yard and  down  the  village,  she  seemed  to  be  attired  in  pure 
white,  and  her  hair  looked  like  the  dash  of  gold  on  a  lily. 
One  hand  was  on  her  husband's  arm,  and  with  the  other  she 
ciasped  the  hand  of  her  father  Silas. 

"  You  won't  be  giving  me  away,  father,"  she  had  said  be- 
fore they  went  to  church ;  "  you'll  only  be  taking  Aaron  to 
be  a  son  to  you." 

Dolly  Winthrop  walked  behind  with  her  husband ;  and 
there  ended  the  little  bi'idal  procession. 

There  were  many  eyes  to  look  at  it,  and  Miss  Priscilla 
Lammeter  was  glad  that  she  and  her  father  had  happened  to 
drive  up  to  the  door  of  the  Red  House  just  in  time  to  see 
this  pretty  sight.  They  had  come  to  keep  Nancy  company 
to-day,  because  Mr.  Cass  had  had  to  go  away  to  Lytherley,  for 
special  reasons.  That  seemed  to  be  a  pity,  for  otherwise  he 
might  have  gone,  as  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Mr.  Osgood  cer- 
tainly would,  to  look  on  at  the  wedding-feast  which  he  had 
ordered  at  the  Rainbow,  naturally  feeling  a  great  interest  in 
the  weaver  who  had  been  wronged  by  one  of  his  own  family. 

"  I  could  ha'  wished  Nancy  had  had  the  luck  to  find  a 


496  SILAS   MARNER. 

child  like  that  and  bring  her  up,"  said  Priscilla  to  her  father, 
as  they  sat  in  the  gig ;  "  I  should  ha'  had  something  young 
to  think  of  then,  besides  the  lambs  and  the  calves." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Lammeter ;  "  one  feels  that 
as  one  gets  older.  Things  look  dim  to  old  folks:  they'd 
need  have  some  young  eyes  about  'em,  to  let  'em  know  the 
world's  the  same  as  it  used  to  be." 

Nancy  came  out  now  to  welcome  her  father  and  sister ; 
and  the  wedding  group  had  passed  on  beyond  the  Red  House 
to  the  humbler  part  of  the  village. 

Dolly  Winthrop  was  the  first  to  divine  that  old  Mr.  Macey, 
who  had  been  set  in  his  arm-chair  outside  his  own  door,  would 
expect  some  special  notice  as  they  passed,  since  he  was  too 
old  to  be  at  the  wedding-feast. 

"  Mr.  Macey's  looking  for  a  word  from  us,"  said  Dolly ; 
"  he'll  be  hurt  if  we  pass  him  and  say  nothing — and  him  so 
racked  with  rheumatiz." 

So  they  turned  aside  to  shake  hands  with  the  old  man. 
He  had  looked  forward  to  the  occasion,  and  had  his  premed- 
itated speech. 

"  Well,  Master  Maraer,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  quavered 
a  good  deal,  "  I've  lived  to  see  my  words  come  true.  I  was 
the  first  to  say  there  was  no  harm  in  you,  though  your  looks 
might  be  again'  you ;  and  I  was  the  first  to  say  you'd  get 
your  money  back.  And  it's  nothing  but  right  fn  I  as  you 
should.  And  I'd  ha'  said  the  *  Amens,'  and  willing,  at  the 
holy  matrimony ;  but  Tookey's  done  it  a  good  white  now, 
and  I  hope  you'll  have  none  the  worse  luck." 

In  the  open  yard  before  the  Rainbow  the  party  of  guests 
were  already  assembled,  though  it  was  still  nearly  an  hour 
before  the  appointed  feast-time.  But  by  this  means  they 
could  not  only  enjoy  the  slow  .ad  vent  of  their  pleasure  ;  they 
had  also  ample  leisure  to  talk  of  Silas  Marner's  strange  his- 
tory, and  arrive  by  due  degrees  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
brought  a  blessing  on  himself  by  acting  like  a  father  to  alone 
motherless  child.  Even  the  farrier  did  not  negative  this  sen- 
timent :  on  the  contrary,  he  took  it  up  as  peculiarly  his  own, 
and  invited  any  hardy  person  present  to  contradict  him. 
But  he  met  with  no  contradiction  ;  and  all  differences  among 
the  company  were  merged  in  a  general  agreement  with  Mr. 
Snell's  sentiment,  that  when  a  man  had  deserved  his  good 
luck,  it  was  the  part  of  his  neighbors  to  wish  him  joy. 

As  the  bridal  group  approached,  a  hearty  cheer  was  raised 
in  the  Rainbow  yard ;  and  Ben  Winthrop,  whose  jokes  had 
retained  their  acceptable  flavor,  found  it  agreeable  to  turn 
in  there  and  receive  congratulations ;  not  requiring  the  pro- 


SILAS   MARNER. 

posed  interval  of  quiet  at  the  Stone-pits  before  joining  the 
company. 

Eppie  had  a  larger  garden  than  she  had  ever  expected 
there  now ;  and  in  other  ways  there  had  been  alterations  at 
the  expense  of  Mr.  Cass,  the  landlord,  to  suit  Silas's  larger 
family.  For  he  and  Eppie  had  declared  that  they  would 
rather  stay  at  the  Stone-pits  than  go  to  any  new  home.  The 
garden  was  fenced  with  stones  on  two  sides,  but  in  front  there 
was  an  open  fence,  through  which  the  flowers  shone  with  an- 
swering gladness,  as  the  four  united  people  came  within  sight 
of  them. 

"  Oh,  father,"  said  Eppie,  "  what  a  pretty  home  ours  is  1 
I  think  nobody  could  be  happier  than  we  are." 


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That  tender  pathos,  which  could  sink  so  deep — that  gentle  humor,  which 
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that  wide  sympathy,  which  ranged  so  fur— those  sweet  moralities,  which 
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3    78  14  DAY 


COT 


DEC131977 


JAN  2  7  78  14  DAY 
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UAN  1  8 


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Book  Slir-35m-9,'62(D221884)4280 


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